Collateral Damage
by anxioussquirrel
Summary: This is not a love story. It's a tale of two strangers brought together by dreadful circumstances; a tale of terrible sacrifices and of the echoes that never quite die. No, this is not a love story. And yet... [WARNING: graphic, situational non-con/dub-con]
1. Chapter 1

**Rating: **NC-17 and then some

**WARNINGS: **graphic non-con/dub-con (non-violent, situational rather than forceful), unhealthy coping strategies, bad decisions, beloved characters behaving like selfish brats and/or raging assholes

**A/N:** _I could sit on this story for another three months, perfecting every word and rethinking every aspect, but if I did that, I would probably never post it at all. This is one of the darkest and most twisted things I've ever written, and definitely the most disturbing – and if you know my stories, you know it says a lot. I tried to back out from it half a dozen times since it was conceived over a year ago, but my brain always came back to it eventually (and I wonder what it says about me). In a moment of doubt I even tried to turn it into a much tamer story of hurt/comfort, but _nachochang_, my fierce leather-clad beta, wouldn't let me – so blame her when you feel the need to yell at the screen. _

_That is also why this piece of weirdness is dedicated to her. Thank you, Jenni, for everything. You're amazing :*  
Thank you to the wonderful people who so generously spent their time test-reading it for me, too – controlofwhatido, irinakyra and, most of all, tchrgleek, whose help and notes were absolutely priceless._

_Please heed the warnings – these are not blink-and-you-miss-it occurrences; all of them weigh heavily on the story as a whole. If you have doubts or questions, feel free to contact me here or on my tumblr (I'm _anxioussquirrel_ there, too). _

_There are 15 chapters, and I will be posting every two days. Let's begin (if I can get myself to click that _Publish_ button...)._

* * *

**COLLATERAL DAMAGE**

**CHAPTER 1: Blast from the past**

If you had asked a teenage Kurt Hummel what he was going to be when he grew up, a waiter at a catering company would have never made the list.

Then again, neither would most of the jobs he'd had in the last five years.

He'd learned not to expect much. It had taken some time, but now he could proudly say he was a master.

Tonight's party was another thing he didn't expect much from. It was utterly boring: just a big bunch of well-off, mostly middle-aged people celebrating a "literary success" of one of their own; a first book selling well or something. In any case, it was shaping up to be a peaceful night of walking around with drink trays, polite smiles and an internal running judgment of the guests' outfits because _oh my god_. All in all, nothing more than the previous four parties Kurt had worked at since he'd gotten the job two weeks ago. Boring. Uneventful.

Just what he needed.

It was living up to the promise until approximately ten p.m., when the night got immeasurably worse in a heartbeat.

Kurt was on his way to gather some empty glasses from the tables across the room when he happened to see something – or rather, someone – he thought he'd never ever see again. Someone whose sudden appearance in the middle of a perfectly normal party, in Kurt's perfectly normal life, was like a lightning strike that sent him reeling and panicked to the nearest bathroom, where he proceeded to promptly empty his stomach.

Later, when his breath slowed down and his heart stopped hammering against his ribs hard enough to bruise, Kurt slumped against the wall, waiting for his hands to feel steady again. It was a miracle that even terrified and pushed by a need to escape so intense it hurt, he'd managed to put his tray down on a nearby table and not drop it. He might still get paid for the whole evening if he got his shit together and went back out there now.

He could do that. He needed the money, so there was no room for slacking, no matter the reason. He'd just have to keep out of _his_ way.

Matt's.

Well, not really, but that was the only name Kurt knew him by. Special Agent Matt.

The name made Kurt's throat tighten, so he swallowed thickly and splashed some cold water over his face and wrists. When he was certain he wouldn't have another breakdown, he straightened up, took a deep breath and went back into the vast ballroom. He found his tray and resumed his rounds, the obligatory smile on his face only a bit more forced than usual.

As he coursed the room for the next hour, Kurt kept well away from that particular corner. And yet, he couldn't help peering over the mass of people every now and then, to glance at the lone figure without being seen himself. The man was still sitting there alone, as dark-haired and broad-shouldered as Kurt remembered, though his hair was longer and unstyled now, falling in curls on his forehead. He didn't talk with anyone, didn't even seem interested in anything but the tumbler in his hand. Was he here on a job?

For years, Kurt had wondered how it would feel if he ever saw the agent again. Now, when the initial shock was over, he seemed to be doing okay. There was a rather complicated tangle of emotions bouncing through his chest every time he set his eyes on Matt – anger, curiosity, sadness, hurt, regret, disbelief – but it didn't choke him. It didn't make him incapable of functioning, paralyzed or even afraid.

Actually, a small but insistent part of Kurt's mind was already busy weighing possibilities and wondering if he was bold enough – or crazy, that was debatable – to just approach the guy. In spite of his rather dramatic freak out back there, it kept nagging him with words like _fate_ and _opportunity_, and he couldn't bring himself to ignore it completely.

Because the truth was, he'd secretly _hoped_ to meet this man again one day, and talk to him. He may have even tried – unsuccessfully – to arrange it once or twice, in a moment of desperation. And now here they were, in the same room for the first time since that night, and Kurt could probably find a way to talk to the agent – if he wanted it badly enough.

Did he want it? Was he ready for this?

_Oh, fuck it_. Yes he was. Five years was long enough to be able to face his demons at last.

Though... maybe not at work, or in a ballroom full of people. Who knew how Matt would react? No, he needed another plan.

* * *

Normally, Kurt's person to go to with a request like this would be one of the bartenders, Tasha. They weren't exactly close, but she seemed to like him well enough. But in this case Tasha couldn't do what he needed; it had to be a guy. Kurt frowned when he realized the only person here who could help him was Sebastian. _Great_. God, he hated that douchebag.

Oh well.

He found him at the bar, loading his tray with fresh glasses of champagne. Standing beside him and adding to his own tray as well, Kurt made sure there was no one around before he spoke.

"I need a favor."

"Nope." Sebastian didn't even look at him.

"I'll take your cleaning duty tonight."

Cleaning after the parties – late into the night after spending hours on their feet already – was the worst part of the job. Washing and packing away all the dishes, loading them into the van, dealing with the messes... No one liked that. Surprisingly, they were more efficient doing it with the smaller crew, so they took turns. Tonight was Sebastian's.

The offer finally got his attention and he turned to Kurt, calculating. "Tonight _and _next time."

Kurt sighed. "Fine."

"So what do you want that badly?"

"See that guy in the far corner?" Kurt kept his back to the room and didn't point. "Young, dark curly hair, dove grey suit –"

"Got him. Mm, that's a looker. What about him?"

"I need his phone number. Or an email, some kind of contact information. And he can't see me."

Sebastian looked at him with a new curiosity. "Okay, is your social awkwardness so bad you need me to pick up a guy for you? And then what? Go on a date in your name? 'Cause I could be fine with that, he is seriously hot."

Kurt rolled his eyes. _Why oh why_ was Seb the only other gay man on the staff?

"He's... someone from my past. I need to talk to him, but I don't want to make a scene here, okay?" he hissed.

Seb's eyes were positively gleaming now. "Well well, our little angel is not so innocent after all, are you? Who is he? An ex? A one-night stand?"

Kurt winced. "Something like that. Will you do this already?"

"Fine, fine. Jeez, he sure got your panties in a twist."

Kurt gave him a little impatient push. "Go. Just don't say anything about me, at all. Try to pick him up or something."

"Oh, I'll pick him up alright. You'll get your boy's number. Just remember, two cleaning shifts."

"You've got it."

Seb was already on the move, a glass of scotch added to his tray, and Kurt's heart pounded hard and fast. Would it work?

* * *

Blaine never wanted to go to this stupid party. Client or not, it wasn't as if Blaine's name was even on the book cover. He was just a _ghost _writer, for god's sake. But his agent was adamant that since he'd been invited, he needed to be there, and finally Blaine had gotten too tired to argue and agreed to appear just to make her stop bothering him.

Which he now dearly regretted.

He knew no one here apart from Harold – the client – and the company couldn't be further from his type, all posh fifty-plus businessmen and their bored wives, old and new. Everyone kept trying to engage him in small talk, two elderly ladies – one very drunk – had already tried to get all _friendly _with him, and he had a new pair of shoes on, which, it turned out, only looked comfortable. So finally he'd hidden at the small table in the corner and kept ordering drinks, counting away the hours until he could leave without appearing rude. He decided midnight would be acceptable.

It still felt like an awfully long time.

His foul mood only made it worse. He'd just come back from his annual vacation – in the Caribbean this year – but for some reason, the getaway didn't have the desired effect at all. Two weeks spent away from the weight of reality, with all of his usual activities and distractions that had always worked to fix him up, and he wasn't even a bit more relaxed or rested than when he'd left New York. Clearly, he needed a change, in the way he spent his vacations if nothing else.

And now he was at this ridiculous party, edgy and uncomfortable, wasting time that could be much better spent. Like maybe finishing that autobiography he was writing for a teen starlet. Or getting royally drunk.

Speaking of... Blaine turned to look for one of the waiters who were circling the room in their white jackets, silver trays on their arms.

Yup, there came one. And he seemed to have another glass of whiskey for him already. Excellent.

* * *

Ten minutes later Sebastian dropped a napkin onto Kurt's tray. There was a number there, written black and bold, and the first, silly thought Kurt had when he saw it was, _He has nice handwriting for someone in law enforcement_.

The second was, _Oh my god, this is happening_.

"Well that was easy. Your ex-whatever is half gone already. Is he always such an easy drunk? He basically offered me a quickie in the bathroom. Hmm, maybe I should take him up on it. He's got such sinful lips."

Kurt felt a little sick again. He had no idea if what Sebastian said was the truth or just his usual crudeness, but it was safer not to know or he might talk himself out of doing what he'd already decided. Not to mention, he'd rather not think too much about Agent Matt's sinful lips. Or other parts of him, for that matter.

"Thanks for the number. I owe you."

He took the napkin, folded it and hid it carefully in his inside pocket. It was so light and fragile for something so important. Life-changing, maybe.

Because even with the nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach, Kurt was almost completely sure: this made sense. He needed to try. Maybe this was the change that would let him break out of the stagnant, hopeless circle his life had become in the last few years. He just wanted to _live_ – to have all of those things that should be normal at his age, that were still so painfully abstract to him. A stable job. A boyfriend. Feeling safe.

Maybe getting this final, radical closure would help. It _had to_ help. If it didn't, he really was out of options.

He'd call tomorrow.

* * *

The cheeky, attractive waiter entertained Blaine for a moment, which was nice. After he resumed his rounds, Blaine could at least fill some time lazily considering if the boy would actually call, and if he would still be hot without the whiskey goggles. Probably not, considering that Blaine got bored with imagining what they could do together after a mere ten minutes.

He sighed with relief when midnight struck and he could say goodbye to the host and go home. Finally. He was so tired from all the smiling, pretending and small talk that he only wanted to sleep. Really, writing all day didn't get him as drained as official functions where he didn't have to do anything but appear. Still, with his job, sometimes it was unavoidable.

He'd done his share for at least a month now. Time to get back to his solitary life.

* * *

The next day rose cold and bright in that beautiful combination of sunshine and fresh snow – a perfect day to shut out the world and work. Without bothering to change out of his pajama pants, Blaine closed the heavy drapes, made himself his first cup of coffee and sat down to write.

The ringing shook him out of his focus hours later, when all he had left to do was write a sufficiently cheesy ending. Blaine stretched and reached for the phone. He didn't recognize the number that flashed on the display; probably the party kid then. The idea of having some fun tonight didn't sound all that bad. He swiped his thumb across the display.

"Blaine Anderson speaking."

There was a sharp inhalation in the receiver, followed by a moment of silence, but before he could check if the connection didn't get broken, the caller spoke. The sound of his voice caused Blaine's insides to twist. It _couldn't_ be.

It was.

"H-hi. Um, my name is Kurt Hummel. You probably don't remember me but –"

Blaine tried to swallow through the knot in his throat, and nearly choked. He could say he didn't remember. He could pretend that name was nothing more than a long forgotten blip on the radar of his memory. He could make the boy believe he didn't care, force him to leave Blaine alone.

Right. Who was he kidding?

"I remember," was all he managed, not trusting his voice beyond that. He didn't know what to say anyway. Besides, it was Kurt who called – Kurt who had his number somehow. He probably had a reason. Other than destroying Blaine's life completely, that is.

"I... I'm sorry to intrude like this, I don't mean to... um. I know it will sound crazy, but… could we meet? For coffee? Or, or drinks?" The last part was rushed, forced out in a way that betrayed Kurt's nerves.

Blaine closed his eyes. It was a terrible idea, what was the kid thinking? But somehow, in the short distance between his brain and his mouth, his firm _No_ turned into a quiet, "Why?".

Kurt hesitated. "I just really want to talk to you. I... tried to find you, before. And when I saw you last night..."

Blaine's brain connected the dots at last. His tone was biting as he spoke. "Oh, so you sent your friend to get my number?"

"He's not my friend." Kurt sounded offended, and really, how funny was it that _this_ was what he focused on?

"Kurt," the name felt sharp on Blaine's tongue, cutting. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"I know. But... please. I really need to talk."

_Please_. That word, the pleading tone of that high, soft voice, and Blaine was undone. One night – a single night and the boy had him conditioned. He couldn't say _no_, no matter how certain he was he'd regret it. He sighed.

"Fine. Tomorrow night?"

They agreed on a time and location, and with a quiet _bye_, Kurt disconnected. Blaine saved the number in his phone, his fingers trembling over each of the four letters in the boy's – no, man's now, he wasn't a kid anymore – name.

Oh, he'd regret this so much, he knew. He was already shaking, anxiety inching its way under his skin, and it would only get worse.

He closed his laptop – there would be no more writing today – and went to open the liquor cabinet. He needed distractions tonight; plenty of them. Because that phone call, that voice, the pictures that it brought back to Blaine's mind threw him right back into the darkest, most terrible night of his life.

* * *

_Next chapter: __The assignment_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **_Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we're going under. Deep breath..._

* * *

**CHAPTER 2: The assignment**

_Five years ago_

Blaine should have never been given this task. After barely six months with the FBI, he wasn't experienced enough, not to mention completely untrained and unprepared for working undercover. But he was a good agent, eager to prove himself in the first big case he got to participate in, and he was gay, which was a key factor. So when Bobby, their team leader, explained how Blaine was the only one who could quickly infiltrate the place and get the evidence they needed for a warrant, he never hesitated. Never even thought to ask any questions before he agreed, trusting his superiors to know best.

And Bobby, a wiry forty-year-old with weary eyes and ten years of experience working sex cases, didn't bother to make sure that Blaine understood what this particular job entailed, every grimy detail of it. Later, Blaine would realize the man had to know what his junior agent would have to do. But he chose not to talk about it, probably reluctant to scare Blaine off when he had no one else as fit for the job at his immediate disposal.

Or maybe he just didn't care, and only wanted the job done. Maybe he was so numbed by years of working these cases that he honestly didn't think it would be a problem.

If Blaine had known, he would have never agreed. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. He just wanted to help people. If he'd known, he would have let someone else be the hero – and the tormentor.

But he hadn't known, hadn't even thought that it could be a possibility – after all, his superiors would have told him something like that, right? So he only felt proud and eager, and buzzing with nervous anticipation when he entered the headquarters hours before the mission.

* * *

The whiteboard in the conference room held all the information they had – information Blaine knew by heart already, but scanned again carefully.

They were after a small but well hidden sex trafficking group. This particular group was highly specialized: unlike many, they only dealt in boys – young, often underage – and provided their services to a high class gay clientele. Many clues suggested they were hand-picking and kidnapping the kids before making them nothing more than sex slaves.

The group was well connected and elusive, changing addresses of their brothels at the first sign of trouble, but after seven months of chasing their own tail, the FBI finally had a lucky break lately. A wealthy New York banker, neck deep in trouble for his financial exploitations, decided that he valued his freedom higher than loyalty towards his sex provider. He traded his help in collaring the people operating the business for a greatly reduced sentence, and his info turned out to be gold.

The problem with this particular group was that they operated on very strict rules and within exclusive circles. It was impossible to become their client without a personal introduction and recommendation from one of their trusted customers. Due to the methods they employed, no one really knew where the brothel was or who went there. Really, the informant was a godsend, so the FBI had to act immediately. If news of his arrest got to the people managing the group, they'd disappear to resurface somewhere else, and it might take months to find them again.

After rehearsing his cover story (spoiled kid from a wealthy family, a 21-year-old with a preference for young boys, he'd gotten a night at the brothel as a coming-of-age gift from his godfather who called and recommended him), Blaine sat down with Bobby for the final briefing before going in.

Age wasn't a problem. Blaine, barely 25, could easily pass for younger with his innocent face and smiling eyes. He was also quite confident about his ability to play a role – he'd wanted to be an actor before his father put his foot down, and he'd had his share of roles in high school and college productions. The only thing he lacked was undercover training, but for that, he was being briefly instructed.

"Kid, remember: you don't just _play_ that guy – once you go in, you _are_ that guy. Arrogant, hormonal, spoiled, but a bit overwhelmed too – it's your first time in a brothel. Watch the way you talk, the things you say. Be specific, include details when you speak – nothing's more suspicious than sounding too vague and generic – but not too many, it has to be natural. Take a moment to become this kid; think about what he's like, what he enjoys, particularly with sex. If he's getting such a present, his godfather must know it would be something he'd like. So he's kinky, he has unusual or weird preferences, at least for his age. What are they? Be prepared to speak about your – his – sex life freely and with relish. Plan what you'd like to do, they will ask you. Try to catch everything you can, vision and sound, remember to stand in front of things so the cameras can get it. Talk. And remember, when you're with one of those kids, you can't let him know you're a Fed. Don't interview him, just talk like you normally would. It may be tough, you'll want to help and rescue him, but remember, the best help you can give him, all of them, is getting out of there in the morning without raising suspicions. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Once you get in that car, you're on your own. We'll be listening in and watching the feedback all along, but we may not be able to pull you out immediately if anything goes south, so you have to think on your feet. These guys are glorified amateurs, they're cruel and they've most likely killed before. And they don't care about those kids. They probably wouldn't dare kill you if your cover gets blown, but they won't hesitate to get rid of anyone else to cover their tracks, so you _have to_ prevent it at all costs."

Maybe the _at_ _all costs_ should have warned Blaine, but it didn't. He nodded eagerly.

"I will not let you down, sir."

"Good. Now let's go get you wired, it's almost time."

* * *

When Blaine got to the meeting spot an hour later, he was someone else entirely. The fake ID in his wallet said that his name was Matthew Sibley, 21, resident of Columbus, Ohio. His curly hair was slicked back with a copious amount of gel that made it feel like a helmet, and his casual clothes were substituted with tight jeans, a sinfully clingy white v-neck and a black leather vest. He even wore different cologne.

His fancy designer glasses looked like a simple fashion accessory and not the marvel of technology they were. There was more state-of-the-art transmitting equipment tucked on and around his person so if he couldn't transfer one way, the others would work. They couldn't risk losing signal entirely.

The dark green SUV he'd been told to expect stopped in front of the tiny bistro exactly on time. Blaine glanced at the front bumper – the colorful Disneyland sticker was where he was told it would be. The driver's door opened and he was surprised to see a middle aged blond woman smiling at him. She was attractive, her blue eyes contrasting beautifully with tanned skin, but there was a hardness in her face that told him she was no soccer mom.

"Hi! Hop in the back." The front passenger seat was occupied by an oversize handbag and a box from a bakery.

Blaine did as he was told. So that was it; there was no going back now, and he felt more excited than nervous. Here was his chance to prove himself. He'd take it and show his superiors that he was an excellent agent.

The door locked with a quiet click and Blaine realized that the tinted windows in the back were not see-through – not from the inside, at least. The blonde turned to him, all business now.

"Do you have a phone, mp3 player, or any other device with a GPS?"

"Just my iPhone." He patted the pocket where Matt's phone resided. It wasn't a lie, technically. The GPS was in the sole of his shoe.

"Your watch?"

"Nope." He showed her his wrists. There was only a bracelet there, a complicated tangle of leather and silver that looked well worn and completely innocent. Especially for an audio transmitter. The woman nodded dismissively.

"And you don't have any bag, I see."

Blaine faked uncertainty. "No, why? Do I need anything?"

She smirked. "Yeah, your PJs. Okay, switch off the phone and put it in the black box beside you. Lock it. The box stays with me until morning, so try not to lose the key." She took in his surprised expression and explained. "Your phone is untraceable in there. This is to ensure that the location of the place we're going remains secret."

Blaine knew all this, of course, but Matt wouldn't, so he wondered aloud even as he took out the phone and did as he was told. "But I'll _see_ where we're going, so –"

"No, you won't. And don't try anything. If I see you do, the trip is over, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." He managed to pull off charming and petulant at the same time, a boy who's used to getting his way. She nodded briefly and pressed a button.

With that, the partition between the front and back slid up, blocking Blaine's view through the windscreen. There was no way to look outside now, but that was okay. Finding the place wasn't his job.

Blaine wasn't sure how long they drove, but it didn't feel like more than half an hour until they stopped, which meant they were probably still in New York. He didn't move, waiting for instructions. A moment later, the partition came down. They were in a garage; completely empty, windowless and brightly lit. His driver smiled briefly.

"Here we are. Go through this door. I'll see you in the morning, enjoy your stay."

* * *

Blaine didn't know what to expect, but inside, the house looked – well, like a normal, private house, except all the windows were tinted too dark to see through. He turned around curiously, letting the cameras in his glasses and vest button register everything.

A middle-aged man in a well-fitted charcoal suit was waiting in the hallway – heavy-set, pretty nondescript, he looked like a businessman who just came home from work and was about to enjoy his evening with a glass of whiskey and a movie. Blaine shook his extended hand firmly and the man smiled.

"Hi, I'm John. It's good to meet you at last. Your father spoke very highly of you when he called me."

The game was on, then. Blaine shook his head with a small smirk.

"Oh, no sir, it was my _god_father." _And you know it perfectly well. _"If my father knew I'd be coming here, he might feel the need to disown me, if you know what I mean. Leo told me to give this to you."

He took a thick padded envelope from his vest pocket and handed it to the man. He knew what was inside: cash – these people didn't deal in other forms of payment, obviously – plus a short recommendation note from their informant (Leo, as he dubbed himself), and a password he was given on the phone. John opened the envelope, looked through the contents and nodded, evidently satisfied. His smile was much wider and more open now as he gestured for Blaine to follow him to a comfortable lounge.

"Please, sit down." They both settled in deep leather armchairs and John looked at him curiously. "A coming-of-age gift, eh? You must be pretty close with your godfather if this is what he gives you."

Blaine nodded, trying to look slightly bashful. "Yeah. He's the only one in my family who doesn't care that I'm gay. In fact, he bailed me out a couple of times when I got into trouble with my... um. Preferences."

The man nodded and specified calmly. "You mean, young boys."

"Yes, sir." It wasn't difficult to blush slightly at that.

"Well, I think he chose your present well then. I'm sure you'll like your time here – all our employees are perfect little bottoms, young and tight as they come. But first, I need to know your expectations so that I can pick the best match for you." Blaine's heart fluttered a little when he was handed a pad with a questionnaire sheet. "Now, if any of the things specified here are foreign to you, just ask. I'll be back in five minutes."

Hand trembling slightly – he didn't try to suppress it, Matt would be a little nervous too – Blaine took a pen from the coffee table and looked through the page.

_**What would you like your date to look like?**_

Blaine remembered Bobby's advice – details, but not too many. _Tall, slim, pretty, light coloring._ That should be enough.

_**Check any and all special features you're interested in tonight.**_

There was a long list of kinks there, some of which made Blaine shudder. Bondage, cross-dressing_,_ or roleplayhe understood and could potentially see the appeal of, but bloodplay? Breathplay, S/M, _infantilism_, for god's sake? And these were just a few of many. Were those really such common things here that they had a whole sick menu for them? Wasn't it enough that these boys were forced into sex work? Did they have to be hurt, cut and humiliated on top of it?

He felt sick. But he couldn't let himself think about it now, couldn't break character, so with a steadying breath, he focused of the task at hand, more determined than ever. He would do anything to make sure those kids were released as soon as humanly possible, _anything_. That was his job – his mission: he would _help_.

The kink list still lay empty in front of him, and he really should choose something before John returned – Matt might be too young to have tried any hardcore stuff, but he wouldn't be totally vanilla either. With an unsteady hand, Blaine checked _D/s_, the only thing on the list he'd had any personal experience with, having explored it a little with his boyfriend.

_**Any other wishes?**_

_No_. He couldn't think of anything. What else could be added after that detailed catalogue of horrors?

John came back just as Blaine, his ears burning from the mixture of disgust and embarrassment, put the pen away. The man took one look at him and grinned.

"No need to be shy here." He picked up the pad and read through the answers before looking up at Blaine. "Are you sure that's all? If you want to try something more, it's perfectly okay, I promise. It's all included in the price."

Blaine shook his head. "No, I just want… It's enough. This time." He let his smile come out stiff, nervous, and wiped his hands on his jeans as if they were sweaty.

John smiled. "As you wish. You can change your mind at any point during the night, of course, if you decide to explore, but remember that we pick your partner based on your choices here, so he may not be specialized in the more advanced pleasures."

Blaine nodded without a word, and John went back to the questionnaire.

"Light coloring, you say – do you mean you want a blond one?"

"Um, not necessarily – I mean, a different type than I am, you know, light eyes, fairly light hair –"

"Gotcha. And you're a dominant, of course?"

Blaine felt himself color deeper, remembering that his team saw and heard everything. "Of course."

John nodded, nonplussed. "What should he call you?"

Blaine was glad he chose something he'd at least tried before. Otherwise, he might be painfully confused. As it was, he answered confidently, "_Sir_."

"Good." His host finished reading through the questionnaire once more before walking over to a shredder in the corner and feeding the sheet of paper through. "No paper trail, as you can see. We are very careful with that."

He sat back down with a satisfied smile.

"All right, I think I have a _perfect_ toy for you. Let me just tell you about our rules first. We have a strict privacy policy, as you may have noticed. Our suites are soundproof and there are no cameras or mikes there, of course. No one can interrupt your time there for twelve hours from the minute you close the door, and you're free to do whatever you please, with a few exceptions. We have to take care of our employees, so whatever you do, you can leave no lasting injuries that could keep them from work. Also, condoms – not just for anal sex, but oral too, at least when they're the ones performing the act. Always, unless you're ready to pay double the price."

Blaine shook his head, trying hard not to show how nauseated he felt. _Whatever you please_. Ugh, he didn't even want to think about what it must have entailed in some cases. There were pretty perverted fucks out there, he knew, and places like this one catered to their needs perfectly. Money could buy anything.

Fortunately, John either didn't notice Blaine's discomfort or simply took it for nerves, because he patted his knee and got up.

"All right, I'll go order your date to get prepared for you. It will take a little while – feel free to entertain yourself. There's TV, magazines, music, liquor – everything at your disposal. I'll be back soon." With that, the man disappeared in the hallway and Blaine was left with his thoughts.

He tried flipping through some magazines, but the disgust burned his throat and he couldn't focus. He felt dirty just from being here. It was one thing to talk about this place with the team, using dry facts and numbers, and another entirely to know that somewhere in this very house there was a bunch of teenagers forced to deal with such sick bastards on everyday basis. That right now, one of them was being prepared for _him_, unaware that he was safe, that Blaine wouldn't even try to do anything but talk.

Suddenly, he needed a drink to wash down the bitter taste in his mouth. He'd planned to be completely sober and on the top of his game, but Bobby had told him it was alright to have a drink, as long as it wasn't enough to muddle his brain. In fact, it might be more in character if he _did_ drink something.

Sighing, Blaine got up from the armchair and went to the liquor cabinet in the corner to pour himself a shot of tequila. He spent the next twenty minutes changing channels on the TV and doing his best to calm down. The undercover stuff didn't look quite so exciting anymore.

By the time John reappeared to take him upstairs, Blaine was as collected as he could manage. At least the most stressful part was over. Now he'd just talk with the kid they chose for him, get as much information as possible and wait until it was time to leave. He was really good with the talking and gaining people's trust, he'd been told. He could do it.

If he only knew…

* * *

_Next chapter: __The boy_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_I will be away this weekend, and my planned posting schedule would leave this story in a really bad place for a pause, so I'm speeding up the final editing to post daily this week._

_This chapter and the next one are hard. Please proceed with caution._

* * *

**CHAPTER 3: The boy**

They walked along a short hallway until John stopped by the solid oak door leading to one of the rooms.

"This is your suite for the night. There's a bathroom, of course, a mini-fridge with basic liquor cabinet and a stash of condoms and lubricants. If you need anything else, there's a phone connected directly to my office. Your date is cleaned up properly, of course."

Blaine shuddered inwardly. Proper clean-up meant enemas, which made sense and explained the time it took them to prepare the kid, but… _Ugh_. Let's add that to the list of humiliations the _employees_ had to endure.

John smiled. "Let us enter and see if my choice is to your liking."

He opened the door with a key and invited Blaine in with a sweeping gesture.

The room was large and it had a huge bed. It was all Blaine noticed before his eyes fell on the boy kneeling on the floor with his head down. For a moment, he promptly lost his ability to process anything else.

John didn't even pause. "This is Toby. He will be your date tonight, unless you decide otherwise. You're lucky, too – he's sixteen and still untouched, a perfect little virgin. You get to be his first, and without additional payment. Let's call it your birthday present from us." He looked at the slight figure and added in a strict tone. "Toby, stand up so that your master can see you properly."

The boy startled, but didn't move, clearly paralyzed with fear. John came up to him, frowning, and with a harsh movement, reached out to grab him by the black leather collar on his neck. Blaine snapped back into coherence.

"_Stop_."

John looked at him, surprised, then smiled as comprehension dawned. "Oh, of course. No one touches your sub but you."

Blaine nodded stiffly and walked up to crouch by the boy. He prayed for his hand to remain steady as he gently tipped his face up. Pretending to take the moment to look at him and not just to calm himself, Blaine nodded at last.

"He's perfect. Thank you. You can leave us now."

"Of course. Enjoy your stay."

He could hear John's footsteps and the click of the door being shut, but Blaine's eyes never left Toby's face. He was _beautiful_, with perfect, pale skin stained with an intense blush, lean body, and a delicate, innocent face with light brown strands of mussed hair falling on his forehead. He looked like an angel robbed of his wings and thrown into this hellhole. The surge of protectiveness that rushed through Blaine's body was something he hadn't really felt that intensely, well, possibly ever.

The boy's eyes were exquisite – blue and green and grey like a swirl of sea water, and looking right at Blaine, wide and terrified. It was a picture so heartbreaking that all Blaine wanted to do was tell him that everything would be alright, that he'd find a way to save him, to take him out of here. And he would save him, he promised himself, and soon – that's why he was here. If everything went according to plan, this place would be shut down within days, at most. It was Blaine's job to make sure they had all the necessary evidence.

Except he couldn't tell Toby about it. Any rumor, any change of behavior, sign of anything being different and the people running the brothel would get suspicious, which would be a danger not just to the operation, but to all of the kids kept here as well. The FBI already had several dead bodies that were most likely connected to this group. They couldn't risk adding more.

Blaine just had to stay in character.

But who said Matt couldn't secretly despise his godfather's idea? When creating this persona, filling it with quirks and details, Blaine had decided that his character only acted out to punish his family for not accepting him, but inside, he was a good kid, if spoiled rotten. Matt might have slept with younger boys, but they had always wanted it – at least at that time. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of simply using other people, especially when he had serious doubts about their consent, like he had here. So Matt had accepted the gift, because he didn't want to lose his godfather's approval, but he'd never intended to act on it. He planned to just spend the night here, maybe talk a little with the boy he was given, and then go home in the morning, to preen and tell his badass friends about his adventure.

And that was exactly what Blaine was going to do.

Still crouching on the floor, he dropped his hand from the boy's chin.

"Toby, could you sit on the bed? Please?"

He received the tiniest of nods in response. "Yes, Sir."

Blaine straightened up and shook his head quickly. "No, please don't call me that."

The boy was standing now and Blaine had to admit that he really was perfect. Tall, a bit taller than Blaine, and lean, his body proportional and well toned in simple, close-fitting black pants and a snug black top. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

"What should I call you then?"

"B– um, Matt. Just call me Matt."

"Okay." Gingerly, Toby sat down on the very edge of the bed. He took a deep breath and asked, looking down at his knees. "Matt. How may I serve you?"

There was an audible tremor in this voice, words choked out with difficulty, and Blaine hurried to reassure him.

"Oh, no, nonono, I don't want you to serve me at all! You don't have to do anything, I swear. I'm not going to hurt you, I won't even touch you. I… I had to come here, but I don't really want anything. I mean, I'll be here the whole night, so we can talk or something, but other than that –"

The look on Toby's face made him stop short. He was pretty sure there should be relief right now, not dread inching towards panic. This was the moment when the kid should relax and then slowly, Blaine could try to gain his trust and get as much information as possible. But maybe he didn't understand? Was he drugged? Slow, maybe? No, he didn't look slow, there was intelligence sparkling in his beautiful eyes. "Toby? Toby, I just said that I _don't_ want to have sex. You can relax."

"No, you have to!" The words were blurted out, pleading. Blaine shook his head, confused, and Toby continued with wide eyes. "If you don't, I'll get punished for not doing what I'm supposed to do."

_Oh_. Of course, it made sense. Blaine smiled soothingly. "No, don't worry. I'll tell John that you were amazing, that I got exactly what I wanted."

But the boy was still shaking his head urgently. "You don't understand, he'll know. They... they check the rooms afterwards, and they will check _me_, too. To see if you… you know."

Toby looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him, the blush bright red on his face and down his neck, and for the first time today Blaine felt terror rise in his chest. Did it mean he'd have to… no, surely not, there had to be another option. He just needed to think calmly.

"What if I changed my mind and wanted, I don't know, just to look at you? Or touch you, without actual sex?"

"It would mean I wasn't good enough. It's my job to make you want me."

Shit. _Don't freak out, Blaine_. "What if… what if I couldn't get it up? It happens, right?"

Toby shook his head, sounding hopeless. "There are pills in the bathroom cabinet. I'm supposed to give them to you if it happens, and then seduce you. That's part of the job – to get the client there in any way possible. I… I'm new here, but I was specifically instructed about that."

Blaine was trying to think about anything else, any other way out of the situation, but he was coming up empty. There was no magical solution, no panic button to press. For a second he was certain that the team would burst in any minute now to extract him, because they heard it, right? And really, he couldn't be expected to do _that_. It changed everything!

But then, how could they… oh. _Oh_.

They knew.

They _had to_ know. Bobby in particular had been undercover dozens of times. They _knew_. They had known before they sent him here. He was the only one who hadn't.

God, how could he have been so naïve?

The room swirled around him, his breath coming short and fast, not nearly enough air for his lungs, his heart speeding up in an uncontrolled staccato. He was trapped here. Undercover, without a chance to get out of this house and this game, and with a scared, teenage sex slave that he was supposed to deflower.

_Oh god_.

Panic hit him like a black wave of roiling water and it didn't matter that he was an adult man, law major, junior FBI agent in sex crimes department. It didn't matter that he'd seen crime scenes and autopsies, that he could deal with dead bodies, talk to victims and witnesses and grieving families. None of that had prepared him for this.

For being a rapist.

But then a cold hand touched Blaine's own and his eyes snapped wide open.

Toby was kneeling on the floor again, right in front of him, fear in his eyes substituted by a devastated look.

"Matt, is it… am I so ugly that you can't do it?"

Blaine felt some part of his brain return to its working state, but his fingers shook violently when he gently took the boy's hand. It was _not_ the kid's fault, damn it, Blaine couldn't let him believe it was.

"God no, Toby, it's not that. You're really, really attractive. It's just… you don't want this, do you? You're not here because you chose to work for them." The stormy eyes escaped Blaine's look, and even without words, it was answer enough. "I can't do this – I can't _imagine_ doing this to you without your consent. Especially… would it really be the first time for you?"

The nod was almost imperceptible, and Blaine had no doubt it was an honest answer.

_Fuck_.

The kid frowned and looked up at him, determined.

"But you have my consent."

"Only because you don't want to be punished. That's not consent, that's survival. How can a punishment be worse than this, anyway? Maybe it's just their way of keeping you in check? Empty threats?" He knew it was a futile hope – people like that never stopped at words. But he so badly wanted it to be true, to find a way out…

Toby sank his head and got up, taking his hand out of Blaine's. He turned his back to him and embraced his middle before he spoke.

"No. I shouldn't tell you this, but... one of the others, _um_. His client was unhappy with him yesterday. They took him last night, and brought him back hours later, naked and... and torn up, and beaten really badly. They said that's what the first and only warning looks like, the second failure means we're out, and I'm pretty sure they don't meant sent home. Philip… he's still unconscious most of the time, and coughing up blood when he's not, and no one will take him to the hospital. It's just…"

Blaine froze; there was another kid in this house that required immediate help. Toby turned to him, his eyes wet and terrified, but determined.

"I want to get out of here alive. I don't know when or how, but I need to survive until then. I don't know why you're here if not for the obvious, Matt, or why it feels like I can trust you, but please, _please _help me. I can do it, whatever you need from me, I _know_ I can." Toby's words were frantic, his face pleading. "It's just sex. And you are young and good-looking, and you seem kind. It could be so much worse – it _will _be so much worse, otherwise. I'll have to go through this anyway, so… let it be you. _Please_."

Blaine's heart was shattering from utter helplessness. There was no good way out of here – the only choices were different levels of terrible. He knew that his team was out there and already aware of the urgency of the situation, but he doubted they'd manage to be here with a rescue mission before his twelve hours were over. He couldn't risk Toby's safety, his life. If the kid could brave the circumstances and do what he needed to do, Blaine could, too. He'd deal with the aftermath later.

Holding Toby's eyes, he nodded solemnly. "Okay. How?"

There were tears on the boy's beautiful face again, now that his fate was sealed. He looked so young and vulnerable, the burst of strength and determination from the moment ago gone, spent.

"I don't know. You're the client," he said in a small voice before sitting back on the bed with his face hidden in his hands.

Blaine closed his eyes and focused on centering himself. Toby was right – he was the adult here, the one who should know what to do. He couldn't expect a traumatized teenager to tell him how to hurt him so that it was the least severe. And no matter what the boy said, it _would_ hurt him, take what no one could give back. It would change this kid forever, Blaine knew that – it always did, having your innocence taken by force; he'd seen what it does to people. And now _he_ had to do it.

It wasn't a question of _if_ anymore, only _how_ – just how bad would this be for the boy, who may not really be sixteen, but couldn't be much older either. Blaine remembered himself at that age, his first times that had been slow and beautiful, and right. That he'd been ready for, that he'd experienced with a person he'd been in love with, at a time he'd chosen.

He couldn't give all of it to this beautiful boy whose place was in someone's loving arms and not in a brothel, but he could give him _something_. He could make this experience as good as it could be under these circumstances.

He called forth all his courage and strength, and his acting skills; he may feel like a helpless kid in the situation himself, but he _was_ the adult. And Toby needed to believe that Blaine knew what he was doing, so that he could focus solely on surviving this night as unscathed as possible.

Blaine took off his glasses and vest, and set them on the small table close to the bed, careful to direct the cameras away from it. His team needed to hear everything, in case Toby revealed anything important, but they didn't have to see it. Any video could be used in court later, and if Blaine could spare Toby the trauma of having this night filmed, he would. Any shred of respect he could grant him counted.

Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the bed and took the boy's hand, pulling him up. Before he did anything, he needed to know.

"Toby, please tell me you're not really sixteen."

Toby shook his head. "No. I'm nineteen."

"Thank god."

Blaine may not have had a detailed plan ready in his head, but now that he forced himself to think calmly, he knew what he needed to do. John or someone else would interview Toby about this encounter in the morning, and check him and the room to see that he didn't lie. So Blaine had to create and act out a scenario that wouldn't be too traumatic and at the same time would be easy for the boy to report truthfully and for the people checking him to believe. It didn't matter what they'd think about Matt after he was gone. He could afford to be judged harshly – laughed at for being vanilla or a sentimental fool. He could afford to not live up to John's expectations of him.

Toby couldn't.

* * *

_Next chapter: __The deed_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **_This chapter contains graphic non-con/dub-con scenes._

* * *

**CHAPTER 4: The deed**

Face to face with the boy, standing by the bed, Blaine stroked his fingertips along the curve of Toby's jaw, looking at him sincerely.

"Whenever you want me to pause, slow down or stop what I'm doing – just tell me, and I will. I can't give you the perfect first time, and I'm sorry it has to be like this. But I can and will take care of you as much as possible, okay?"

A single nod was all he got, but it was enough.

With quick fingers, Blaine reached to undo the clasp of the leather collar. "Let's get rid of this first."

That alone seemed to let the boy breathe easier, melted a bit of tension out of his shoulders, and Blaine went with it. Just touching at first, stroking gently down Toby's neck and arm, to the pulse point of his wrist where his heartbeat fluttered fast under delicate, fair skin. Blaine raised the wrist up for a kiss, a caress of lips that made the boy shudder involuntarily before he stiffened again, surprised. Blaine never stopped, kissing up the sensitive inner side of Toby's arm, all the way up to his neck. He wouldn't kiss him properly – wouldn't steal this away from him, too, but he knew he was good with his lips. And he needed every advantage he could use to make it bearable for Toby.

He spent a long while kissing and licking the impossibly smooth skin of Toby's neck, patiently searching out all the places that made the breath hitch in the boy's throat, until he felt him get loose and relaxed under his hands.

Only then did Blaine dare to let his fingers sneak over the fabric of the black top, to discover the firm planes of toned muscle underneath. Skillfully, without pause, he slid his fingertips just under the hem of the top, and when there was no protest, slowly smoothed his palms up Toby's back, still kissing the sensitive spot under his jaw. A minute later the garment was off and it was Blaine's turn to draw in a soft gasp because, oh _god_. No matter the situation, this boy was _gorgeous_. He had to know this, right?

"God, you're _perfect_; so beautiful." Toby's eyes snapped open, shocked, and Blaine let his fingertips caress down his firm, smooth chest. The boy's breath hitched when his thumb drew over a nipple, and Blaine led him backwards towards the bed. "Lay down, okay?"

The tension that came back into Toby's muscles with the new, more vulnerable position melted within the next few minutes under Blaine's gentle hands and lips. He continued to touch and kiss, licking teasingly, until he flicked his tongue over the boy's nipple and heard a quiet moan on the exhale. He knelt back up then to take off his own shirt, before returning his hands to Toby's sides, his tongue sliding in non-threatening little circles down his abdomen, towards his navel.

The close-fitting pants did nothing to hide the fact that Toby was at least half-hard already. His eyes were closed, his face distant, and Blaine didn't want to shake him out of whatever scenario he was playing in his head to keep himself from the reality, so he stayed quiet. Lips still occupied with the soft skin of Toby's stomach, he traced his fingers, feather-light, along the length of his cock, earning a moan. So he did it again, more firmly this time, cupping him with his palm, and the boy pressed his hips up into the touch, his breath shuddering. Blaine kept going, leading him further into the world of sensations and away from reality of their situation.

When he finally slid Toby's pants and underwear down and off in a smooth motion, the boy stilled and tensed for an instant. He didn't open his eyes, though, or protest, so Blaine went on to touch his bare cock with a gentle slide of fingertips, whispering "So beautiful". A gasp and a press into his hand let him know that it was okay to proceed and he used one of the little bottles of lube waiting on the bedside table to discreetly slick up his palm. Minutes later, Toby was keening and shuddering, pulsing into Blaine's stroking hand with a stunned look on his face.

It didn't stay there long – Blaine had just enough time to clean up his hand and Toby's stomach with a tissue before the boy stiffened and gasped, his eyes snapping open, wide with shock.

Blaine lay down beside him without a word, not touching, just letting his eyes linger on Toby's face. He didn't expect a comment about what just happened, and didn't get any. After a moment Toby reached out and, with only a bit of hesitation, touched Blaine's collarbone before sliding his fingers down his chest. He seemed fascinated with the light dusting of hair there, and Blaine lay calmly, letting the boy get acquainted with any part of his body he felt comfortable to touch. When a soft gasp escaped him, Toby startled.

"Can I –?"

Blaine smiled. "You can do whatever you want."

So Toby did, taking what looked like his first opportunity to get to see and learn another man's body. Blaine just lay there, satisfied with his role of a guinea pig for the moment, shivering every now and then under the flutter of curious fingers. Once Toby's hand met the barrier of Blaine's waistband, he looked up again.

"Do you mind?"

"Of course not."

It took a bit of fumbling, but after a while Blaine was naked, sprawled on his back and trying not to blush under Toby's stare. He wasn't particularly self-conscious – he knew his body was in good shape – but this felt different from any of his earlier experiences. For one, he felt a distracting conflict between his body, turned on by the close proximity of an incredibly attractive guy touching him, and his mind that kept telling him that it was wrong to feel that way, for more than one reason. Although, considering what they had to do, Blaine felt excused to make his mind shut up for the time being. He had no doubt it would come back to hit him full force later, but he hoped it would be after he left this place. He could deal with the consequences then.

Toby drew a shaky breath, daring to ghost his hand over Blaine's cock and then stroke it carefully. Wordlessly, with just a hum of pleasure to let the boy know that it was okay, Blaine handed him the lube. It took Toby a few moments to gain confidence and find a rhythm, but soon he was taking Blaine apart, visibly spurred on by his reactions.

Afterwards, the boy looked awed and a little proud of himself, and Blaine couldn't resist the temptation to kiss his shoulder with a whispered, "Thank you."

It got awkward after that, neither of them certain what to do now when they had all night before them, and a prospect of obligatory penetrative sex hanging over their heads. For that little moment before, it was easy to lose themselves in touches and sensations, non-invasive as they were; but there was no kidding themselves – it wasn't a sweetly awkward first night between lovers. It was something else entirely, something dark and heavy, something that should never have to take place. There was no escaping it. Blaine smiled a little stiffly.

"I'll go shower, all right?"

It was as much because of the discomfort of sweat and come drying on his skin as the need to be alone for a little bit and figure out how to proceed. He couldn't just say "Now let me stick my cock up your ass," could he? But then again, natural build-up to this probably wouldn't work the way it usually did when two people _wanted_ to have sex.

The bathroom was large and luxurious, with both a big shower enclosure and a bathtub that could easily fit three people. There was an assortment of top-shelf bath and shower products there, but even after ten minutes under deliciously strong streams of hot water Blaine was no closer to forming a plan than he was before. He gave up eventually, dried himself up and went back to the room.

Toby was curled under the blankets, looking achingly young again. He watched as Blaine crossed the room to stand indecisively by the bed, naked save for the fluffy towel around his waist. Raising the covers invitingly, Toby flashed him a ghost of a smile.

"Come on, we're past ashamed I think. It's not like I won't see you naked again in a bit, we still have to – "

He blushed and broke off, and Blaine busied himself settling in bed to avoid the topic just a little bit longer. But it was silly. As much as he hoped that his team was already on their way here, he knew it wasn't likely – getting a warrant alone took at least a few hours, not to mention calling in the tactical team to secure the building. He couldn't count on it and put off the inevitable until the very last minute. So he took a deep breath and forced himself to look Toby in the eye – he was an adult, dammit. He could do it.

"Um, about that –"

Toby interrupted him, raising his hand. "No, let me. Matt, I'm sorry; I know you don't want to do this and I have no right to force you. Maybe it'll be alright if you tell John you didn't feel like it, maybe what we already did will be enough? I mean, I can't use you like that, for my own safety –"

Blaine shook his head, incredulous. "Toby –"

"_Kurt_. My real name is Kurt. I may as well tell you, it's not like experiencing all this under a fake name makes it any less real." Toby's – _Kurt's_ – face seemed resigned now. Blaine nodded.

"Kurt. I don't want to do this because I don't want to hurt you or take this from you. But I will if I have to, and I'll be as gentle as possible, it's just… I hate that I can't spare you experiencing this under these circumstances."

"Can we just… do it now, then? Get it out of the way? I want to get it over with, please." Kurt's voice was shaky and Blaine's heart pounded. This was it; no more stalling. He nodded and Kurt was all businesslike all of a sudden. "All right then. Do you want me on my stomach?"

He was already pushing down blankets, steel determination on his face, and Blaine touched his hand to stop him.

"No, wait. Let me do this my way. Come here." He opened his arms and once Kurt moved closer, he covered them both, their bodies flush against each other in the soft cocoon. He returned to the gentle kisses along Kurt's neck, his hands drawing slow, soothing lines all over his body, until the tense muscles relaxed into the touch. And then he did it some more. Their hips swayed against each other, cocks brushing, and Blaine felt himself grow hard again. It helped a little not to think beyond the here and now.

After a bit, he rolled the boy onto his stomach and focused the touches and kisses on his back, unhurriedly mapping it, moving his attentions lower, inch by inch, until his tongue was diving into the crack of Kurt's ass and teasing over his entrance. This felt good and safe, and Kurt's reactions, the way he alternated between pressing onto Blaine's tongue and down against the sheets, made it clear he enjoyed it. But when Blaine whispered, "I could make you come like this," Kurt mumbled into the pillow.

"No. We need to –"

The rest of the sentence dissolved into a loud moan as Blaine slipped just the tip of his tongue inside, and maybe it wouldn't be that bad?

Except the moment he substituted his tongue with one generously slicked finger, just teasing around the entrance, he felt Kurt steel himself for what was to come, no matter how Blaine soothed and tried to guide him into it. And the problem was, this particular activity you just couldn't steel himself for – you had to relax and melt into it, accept it. Embrace the fact that you want to let someone in, so intimately. Your body knew if you didn't, it couldn't be cheated. Kurt's body knew. It went badly.

Blaine didn't want to do it – to the point where he felt himself going soft in protest. But it wasn't his choice anymore, not here, not now. So he kept stroking himself with one hand while the other worked on opening Kurt up, slowly but insistently. He did his best to tune out every pained whimper, every stiffening of Kurt's back, trying to focus on his stroking hand and the tight heat around one finger first, then two. He took forever with careful slides and gentle stretches, with comforting touches and apologetic whispers against pale skin before he even tried adding the third finger, and then took forever more until the muffled sobs quieted and he felt the muscles yield and slowly relax around his fingers. Kurt was soft and terrified, so Blaine didn't even try for pleasure here – he'd settle for relative painlessness.

Of course, it wasn't painless – it couldn't be, not with Kurt so tense and scared. He flinched violently at the first gentle push, but when Blaine hesitated, he turned his head to beg, "Don't stop now. Whatever you do, please don't stop, I want it over as soon as possible. I can take it, just don't stop."

So Blaine had no choice but to proceed, no matter how much he wanted to call it off and just hold this boy in his arms till morning, tell him that help was on the way. He did his best against the desperately pained cries, muffled by the pillow, and focused on sliding slowly in, bit by tiny bit, stopping every inch or so to let Kurt accommodate and to whisper "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" again and again, and again. When he was finally all the way in, he stopped, relieved, only to realize that his face was wet with tears.

They stayed like this for a long while, Blaine stroking Kurt's tense shoulders and back until the fists clenched tightly in the tangled sheets relaxed and he heard a muffled "Go on. Do it."

He only took a dozen careful, slow slides – slides that made Kurt shake and whimper nonetheless – before deciding it was more than enough for proof and pulling out. Closing his eyes and focusing on some go-to fantasies, he jerked himself off quickly and without finesse until he felt his body tighten and release. The pulsing of his cock felt distant and unimportant – the orgasm didn't matter, it was simple physiology; what mattered was that it was done and there was evidence of their encounter now. He could get rid of the condom and focus on making it better.

Kurt was shaking all over, curled tightly on his side. His eyes were wet and clenched shut, a fist covering his mouth, only letting the ragged, hitching breaths around. There was such an aura of hurt and trauma radiating from him, such a closed-off feeling that Blaine was afraid to even touch him. He tried anyway, just Kurt's hand, approaching slowly like he would a terrified child, but the choked whimper Kurt let out as he curled up on himself even tighter was so full of fear that Blaine's heart shattered into even smaller pieces, impossible as it seemed.

He tried to speak to Kurt, quiet, gentle words, but only made himself feel like the worst monster imaginable, and finally he fled to the bathroom to throw up violently from sheer disgust with himself. He wondered if he could just stay there until morning, sitting on the floor, swaying, but the sense of responsibility wouldn't let him. He had broken this beautiful boy – no matter that it wasn't his choice. It was his doing, and it was his responsibility to make him better. Blaine looked around helplessly, his eyes falling on the oversized bathtub.

_Oh._

Ten minutes later the bathroom was full of the soothing smell of lemon-scented bath foam, the lights turned down low, and Blaine went back to the room and sat on the bed. Kurt wasn't shaking so much anymore and his eyes were open, though still wet and looking at nothing. Blaine tried to talk to him again, his voice pleading.

"Kurt – I'm so sorry, you have no idea how much. But it's done. We're _done_, I won't hurt you again. Please let me help you feel better?" Kurt looked at him, and even with no other reaction, it was something. "I drew you a warm bath, it will help. Can I – will you let me carry you there?"

A tiny, barely perceptible nod made him exhale after what felt like forever, and he scooped Kurt into his arms. He may have been taller than Blaine, but it didn't matter – right now, he seemed small and fragile, utterly vulnerable. Blaine didn't let go of him as he stepped into the bathtub, cradling him against his chest, Kurt's head on his shoulder. Only after Blaine had settled in the warm foamy water, he gently sat Kurt in front of him. Kurt's body felt limp and boneless, and instead of moving away to the opposite end of the tub, he just melted against Blaine's chest, allowing himself to be held.

Slowly, very slowly, Kurt's ragged breathing became deeper and more regular in the soothing silence, and as Blaine smoothed his hands down his arms, he heard the boy murmur quietly.

"I'm fine. I'll be okay. You did what you had to do." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as Blaine, but at least he was getting back to himself. It had to be a good sign, right?

They didn't talk, but Kurt didn't move away or flinch when Blaine began stroking his chest in small, soothing circles. At Blaine's gentle prompting, he reached to clean himself of the lube, wincing slightly, and then let Blaine help him out of the tub and dry him with a large towel. When they got to the bed and under the covers, he turned into Blaine's embrace, as if burrowing for comfort, and Blaine's heart warmed with a painful squeeze.

They lay like this for a long time, lost in their respective thoughts, but then Blaine heard a quiet, "Matt?"

With a start, he remembered that was him. "Yeah?"

Kurt's eyes were full of tears and a desperate sort of hope. "Could you… do something?"

"Anything. What do you need?"

"I don't know. Something to make me stop reliving… _that_. In my head." His voice shook, and Blaine would do anything to erase that pain from his sea-colored eyes.

So he did his best. He touched and kissed, and whispered tender words into Kurt's smooth skin, showing him over and over that sex wasn't all bad, that his body could react in ways that made him want to moan and arch with pleasure. He spent hours of this terrible, desperate night writing apologies into every inch of Kurt's skin, until he was loose and thrumming with want. And then he undid him completely with lips on his cock, making him cry out in delight instead of pain and sigh tiredly before he burrowed into Blaine's chest and fell asleep.

He was the only one who got any sleep that night. Blaine lay awake, listening to every sound from the outside, praying for his team to get there already and take Kurt – take all of these kids – away from this house of horrors before another day passed and another night brought new clients and new suffering. He knew they had enough evidence now – with the GPS data, the questionnaire and Blaine's conversation with John, and most of all, Kurt's words about their rules and punishments, and the beaten up boy. It was only a matter of time. But every minute felt like too much.

Kurt woke up an hour before Blaine had to go; quiet, distant and sore, judging from the way he moved. He moved away from Blaine as soon as he was awake, any connection they had before gone in the light of the morning. There was nothing that kept Blaine here, apart from the need to put on his Matt-shaped mask to convince John how satisfied he was with Kurt's company. And it wasn't easy, with the guilt and self-hatred tearing at him already like a bloodthirsty hellhound.

He managed, of course. He had to, otherwise what they both went through tonight would be for nothing. So he apologized again and bid goodbye to Kurt, who answered only with a stiff nod, and left the room that would forever stay in his memory as a synonym of hell. The second he closed the door behind him, he schooled his face into a delighted, dreamy expression.

John was downstairs, in the lounge, and his eyes glinted when he saw Blaine practically bouncing down the stairs.

"Good morning! So I gather your sub turned out to be good?"

Blaine grinned widely and trilled. "Forget sub. He was a shy little _virgin_. It was like, an ultimate fantasy; he was _perfect_. I can't thank you enough." He sighed with the best approximation of bliss he could produce while nauseated, and John laughed.

"Well, I'm glad we could be of service. I hope you'll visit us again." A business card was tucked discreetly into his hand, and Blaine grinned.

"Only if I get to play with…" he yawned widely, "Toby again. He was everything I wanted and more."

He was _so _close to saying _Kurt_, fuck! He was on the verge of losing it. It was time to go.

John smiled indulgently. "Of course. Thank you for visiting, your car is ready. Send our best regards to Leo."

And just like that, it was over – at least for him, but that was all he could think about now. He spent the drive back to the tiny bistro in silence, and then took a cab to the headquarters, where he left all the equipment with the agent on duty, because his team was still out.

He went home, ignoring the texts from his boyfriend asking him how the secret mission went and if he was free tonight.

He shut the door.

And then he collapsed on the floor and finally let himself break down.

* * *

Back at the house, Kurt finished reporting the details of their encounter in dry, clipped words, the memory of John's rough fingers still radiating pain through his belly, more invasive than anything his client – _Matt_ – did last night. The man was done looking around the suite, digging through trash, evidently satisfied and in a good mood. He hummed to himself, the happy sound making Kurt hate him even more where he thought it wasn't possible.

"And what was your impression of your client? How did he treat you?"

Kurt stopped to think a moment, choosing his words carefully. "He seemed satisfied. He praised me and was nice to me."

John chuckled unpleasantly. "The kid was a bigger softie than I thought. You lucked out. Don't get used to it, though, I'll find you a real man soon enough."

There was a loud crash from downstairs, followed by the sound of running feet and multiple voices.

"_FBI_!"

* * *

_Next chapter: __The reason_


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5: The reason**

Kurt never saw his client again after _that night_. The FBI rescue team secured the house within an hour after Matt had left, taking all of them – except for Phillip, who'd been rushed to the nearest hospital – back to the headquarters, where the process of debriefing all of them began. They were provided with medical attention and psychological assistance, and just like that, the horror of captivity and prostitution was over. Once Kurt's family arrived a few hours later, he was ready to be taken back to his apartment, with a list of recommended therapists and a promise that the agents would contact him again soon.

He was exhausted and still sore as he was leaving the FBI headquarters with his dad's arm tight around his shoulders. But at the same time, he was acutely aware just how lucky he'd been in this whole ordeal.

He'd been kidnapped barely four days before (and in a really stupid way – by a slightly older guy he'd gone on a few dates with – his first dates ever, ironically), and his only encounter while in captivity was Matt. Who, as he was told now, was an undercover agent sent in to help take down this whole sick operation.

Most of the other seven boys had spent long months there, being sold and used and humiliated again and again, "servicing" perverted, often cruel guys in ways that made Kurt want to hurl at the mere memory of their stories. He only had his virginity taken by a kind, gentle, very attractive man who did this just to rescue them. It almost felt like nothing to angst about, in comparison.

And yet, in the following weeks back home in Lima where he went to recover, Kurt kept waking up screaming in the dead of the night and his therapy sessions ended with tears or angry fits more often than not. He was told that it was normal, that it would pass with time.

They were right. Between therapy and life going on around him as if nothing bad had happened, he finally began to feel steady on his feet, no longer waiting for someone to pull the rug out from beneath him at any moment. Soon, he felt safe enough to convince his reluctant dad to let him go back to New York. He started with another therapist there and returned to his classes. Months passed, and eventually the lingering threat of hearings was over after Kurt sat in the courtroom to hear the sentences of lifetime imprisonment for his kidnappers. A few weeks after that, he decided that he didn't need therapy anymore. His counselor had some doubts, but he felt ready. He was fine.

His life went on, mostly back to normal. He still had more anxiety than before, avoided strangers and dark places, and would never get in the car with someone he didn't know really well, but those would pass, too.

Now, five years later, he was practically over most of it. Except–

One thing never changed. That was why he'd been thinking about meeting Matt – well, Blaine, he knew now – and what helped him gather the courage to call when taking the phone and entering that number made him tremble like a leaf. That was why he was now hovering by the door of the bar they agreed upon, steeling himself to enter.

Because maybe this could help if nothing else could.

* * *

Blaine was already there when Kurt arrived, sitting in a corner booth, nursing a glass of amber liquid with an absent expression. Kurt ordered a Coke, his knees feeling weak and shaky. He rarely drank – alcohol relaxed him, but also had an unfortunate tendency to strengthen his emotions and reactions. It wasn't pretty, sometimes – considering how bitchy and short-tempered he could be even without any help. It definitely wasn't the mood he needed today; he was already emotional enough about this meeting.

It had taken everything in him not to chicken out because frankly, this – what he wanted – was insane. But he felt like he'd exhausted all the other options, and the more he'd analyzed his reactions to the idea, the more he realized that he was nervous, yes, but not afraid of Blaine, despite the past circumstances and all of the painful emotions he evoked in him. If anything, he felt almost... hopeful.

Blaine had noticed him already, and that was it; no turning back. They were here now, in a quiet bar; two grown men this time, equals, without walls or fake names, or anyone forcing them to do anything.

Doing his best to look calm, Kurt made his way to the booth, seating himself opposite the agent. Up close in the flickering light of the candle, Blaine looked tired. His face, just as handsome as Kurt remembered, was different in little ways. He looked… not older, no. More like, weary. Jaded. There was no sign of that openness, the clear display of emotion Kurt was so sure he'd seen back then, something that had made him trust this man, no matter how unwise it had seemed.

Well, he'd probably imagined it anyway. The mind plays curious games when you're in a situation you really want to escape.

There'd been a period, those first months back home, when Kurt had thought about Matt – Blaine – as a hero, a regular knight on a white horse. Sure, he'd done things to Kurt – but it wasn't like he'd had any choice, had he? Not under the circumstances. So for quite some time, in the eye of the storm of his emotions, Kurt had only felt grateful towards Blaine – for saving him; all of them. For being nice and kind, and gentle.

But as time went by and memories slowly lost their sharp edges, Kurt realized that there were other, darker feelings for Blaine in him. Which was okay, his therapist told him – no matter the extenuating circumstances, the man still took something from him, something precious. Kurt should allow himself to feel what he felt.

So he did. There was a lot of anger in him then – rage even, hatred towards the people who'd kidnapped and kept him, who'd made him surrender, sold him like an object without a second thought. It was loud and sharp in his head for a long time, making him snappy and unpleasant as he tried to deal with the fallout of his experience. His ire towards Blaine was just a whisper in comparison. But then the trial came and went, and Kurt got to testify against his captors and see them sentenced to be locked up forever, and this, along with an ugly sobbing fit after he came back from the court that last day, turned out to be enough for most of the anger to burn out.

But not all of it. Some of it remained, only to flare up at the most unfortunate moments, seemingly without a reason. He'd finished his therapy by then, but one night Kurt sat down and methodically analyzed his feelings the way he'd learned to do, and realized that he felt like the justice wasn't complete. Because while the worst fuckers got what they deserved – well, they deserved worse, but torture was sadly illegal – the men who visited the brothel got nothing, because there was no record of their names. They came and chose teenage boys to fuck and degrade like they were nothing, and yet, they remained free and untouched. Including Blaine.

And yes, Kurt knew he was unfair, feeling that Blaine should suffer for what he'd done, but he couldn't help it.

Then again – Kurt wondered viciously a year later, after yet another date ended in a total disaster – was Blaine really such a knight in shining armor? He'd agreed to go undercover, after all, knowing what was going on in that house. Maybe he'd _wanted_ to be in this situation. True, he'd said he only wanted to talk, but _please_, really? Who would believe that?

Didn't he get off on the fact that Kurt basically begged him to be fucked? Didn't it give him a sick kind of thrill? Because how could he have _gotten it up_ at all, not to mention see Kurt like this and tell him, over and over again, how beautiful he was, how _perfect_? Why hadn't he told Kurt that there was hope, that out there, people were getting ready to rescue them? Why hadn't he been there with the other agents afterwards, to even check on him?

Because he'd had his fun and he didn't care beyond that, that was why.

True, Blaine had been nice, and had done nothing cruel or disgusting, which was really decent of him, but it didn't make him innocent. He'd gotten his fun, and Kurt was the one who had to suffer through the consequences, including the paralyzing fear of letting any man close, the extent of which he was only starting to discover.

Resentment had been boiling in him that night – being called a freak by your date because you flinch away from an innocent touch tends to do that to people. But even a few days later, when Kurt had decided that he was better off without a guy who was clearly a jerk, some of his anger remained, hot and bitter. When he thought about _that_ _night_ now – and he did, often, those memories were an indelible part of his life – Kurt didn't think of Blaine's hesitation and the stream of apologies, or his tender care after they were done with the worst. He thought of the shame, the pain, the humiliation of it all.

It felt like Blaine was the key that kept some areas of Kurt's life locked from him. He intended to get them back at last.

* * *

The silence in the booth was quickly becoming awkward, so Kurt made himself stop staring at the man opposite him and smiled shakily.

"Thanks for coming."

Blaine didn't return the smile. "I promised I would." He paused for a bit, and when Kurt didn't fill the silence, he added. "So, you're working events now."

It wasn't a question, just a conversation opening, Kurt knew, so he took it.

"Yeah, for now. I studied fashion, but somehow clothes started to feel like such a trivial thing to get invested in, after um... everything. I graduated, but then I decided to try other things." He shrugged. "Except sitting in one place makes me anxious. So I... freelance. I catch some odd jobs, here and there. It's not a dream situation, but it suits my needs fine. At least it's not boring," he joked lamely, like he always did when people wondered what someone with his degree was doing as a waiter, or a dog-walker. Blaine just nodded wordlessly, leaving the effort of keeping up the conversation to Kurt. "How about you? Still with the Bureau?"

Blaine drained the contents of his glass, signaling to the bartender to bring him another. "Let's cut the small talk. Kurt, why are we here?"

Kurt feigned innocence. "Um, because you suggested this place?"

Even the irritated frown looked good on Blaine's face, Kurt couldn't help but notice.

"No, why did you want to meet me? Why dig up the past?"

He couldn't make it worse if he said he didn't remember that night. Kurt bit his tongue to keep from snapping – he wanted something from this guy after all – but some bitterness leaked out.

"It may be long gone and unimportant to _you_, but this _past_ still affects my _present_, so excuse me for digging it up and reminding you."

"It's not –"

Kurt wouldn't let him finish, anger rolling through him full force now, making his tone blunt and matter-of-fact. "I want to spend a night with you."

* * *

Blaine was sure he misheard.

"_Excuse me_?"

"You heard me. I want to spend a night with you – on my terms, this time." Kurt's beautiful face was hard, eyes glinting with determination that made them more steel grey than the blue-green Blaine still saw in his dreams sometimes. The atmosphere in the little booth they were occupying turned icy in a heartbeat.

Blaine swallowed the whiskey that just arrived and asked for another. "Make it a double," he added quickly. He may have had a few already, since the thought of meeting Kurt while sober made him feel as if he was coming here naked and exposed, but it wasn't nearly enough for the turn this conversation was taking.

"Why?" He managed.

"Because you are the reason I can't get touched by any guy without freaking out." It felt like a violent punch right in the solar plexus, stealing his breath away, but Kurt continued, unmoved. "I tried, dozens of times, with different people, in different situations. I went back to therapy, even met with a sexologist. Nothing helped. _Nothing_. I've never had a boyfriend. Five years and you're still the only man I've ever gotten to be intimate with. And I'm sick of it – I'm twenty-four, I want to have a normal relationship, a normal sex life, dammit."

A rough, disbelieving laugh ripped out of Blaine's throat. "And you want _me_ for it? Are you insane?"

The look on Kurt's face was almost certainly distaste. "Of course not. But I'm grasping at straws here. I figure, that night, it was like I lost a piece of myself – maybe if I sleep with you again, on my own terms this time, having full control, I'll somehow get that back. Maybe I'll stop getting paralyzed with fear every fucking time a man tries to touch me. I've read that revisiting a traumatic event when you're ready can help snap out of the phobias it caused. And I'm ready. At this point, I'm ready to try anything. If this won't help, I don't know what will."

Blaine's mind was short-circuiting in a quiet panic, looking for ways out of the situation before this damn kid convinced him to say _yes_.

"But how do you even know you won't react to _me_ this way? It would be only logical."

"Good question." Kurt got up and moved to sit by Blaine's side on the plushy red bench. "Touch me," he demanded. "Just, the way you'd touch someone on a first date. No, wait. Make it the second."

Blaine's hand felt like lead as he raised it, unsure what to do. Eventually, he lay his palm just over Kurt's knee and moved it a little up his thigh, his fingers tracing the inseam of his skinny jeans. Kurt gasped quietly before his eyes widened in shock.

"Okay, here's your answer. This is officially the furthest I've gone in the last five years without freaking out. See? This could work." The hard edge was gone from his voice, excitement creeping in instead, and Blaine could see how much it meant to him. But still…

"Kurt… Why would I agree to do this?"

Kurt's jaw clenched for a moment before relaxing. "I bet you've had a lot of sex since that night, haven't you?" Blaine cringed but nodded because well, yes, he had. A _lot_. Too much, some would say. Talk about unhealthy coping techniques. Kurt tilted his head. "Don't you think I deserve to have that too? Besides, I think you owe me that one night."

_Ouch_. That was striking below the belt. And in just the right spot, Blaine couldn't deny him that. But _fuck_, it was _such_ a bad idea… Still, this was the one argument he wouldn't be able to say _no_ to. Any further discussion would be just prolonging the inevitable.

"Okay."

Kurt stared at him, disbelieving.

"Okay? Really?"

Blaine swallowed the lump in his throat and chased it down with more liquor.

"Okay."

* * *

_Next chapter: __The night_

* * *

_**End notes:** Okay,__I'll just go hide somewhere now... :P_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **_Graphic sex in this chapter - do I need to warn for this? :)_

* * *

**CHAPTER 6: The night**

They talked a little longer that night, picking the date – three days from now – and discussing details of their plan. Then they parted and Kurt went home, almost skipping with excitement.

As much as he'd thought about it, he never hoped he would ever get to actually try and exorcize his demons for real. It was probably one thing to imagine it and quite another to truly, physically revisit that fateful night, but honestly, he couldn't wait. This would work, he was sure of it. He would get over his phobia at last.

The idea was born a few years ago, when he was browsing through some trauma survivors' forums like he did sometimes, looking for something – anything – new that could help him deal with his problem. He had given up on counseling by then, but his own ideas of solutions had brought him nothing so far. That day, in an old discussion thread, a solitary reply caught his attention.

_You should try to revisit the source of your trauma – the place, the person, the circumstances. Taming the memories, taking control over them, may numb your brain to the things that trigger you. _

He knew nothing about the poster's situation – they were a new user who only posted this one thing a couple of years ago – but the words sparked something in Kurt, a flicker of hope he hadn't felt in a while.

He'd talked about his ordeal with his therapist, of course, and had come to a point where he could think about it without breaking into cold sweat, but actually seeing the place where it happened or confronting the man who had done it to him that night had never crossed his mind. His throat clenched at the mere thought, but his reaction only strengthened the feeling that this might be it. This could be the way to conquer his phobias.

Of course, there was no way he could find either the house where they'd been kept or Matt himself – the details of the case were confidential, he knew that from the FBI. But the idea was so firmly stuck in Kurt's head by then that for lack of that option, he went with the next best thing: his imagination.

The first time he visualized entering that suite again and seeing Matt waiting for him, it nearly ended with a panic attack. It was all so vivid in his head – every detail of the room, every line of the man's face. But Kurt only gave himself a day before trying again. And then again, until he was able to stay in the room, look around, sit on the bed.

In his head, he wasn't a sex slave anymore. He wasn't trapped there, no one made him do anything, he didn't have to humiliate himself begging Matt for sex. They were equals, as they should be.

In his head, Matt was a lover, not a client.

So it only felt natural that with time, when merely "revisiting" the place in his imagination didn't help with his inhibitions, Kurt started to go back to what they'd done, he and Matt. It made sense. The sex had caused his problems in the first place, so that was what he needed to be okay with to be able to move on, right? And he was in control here, in his head. He could cut and edit the memories, remove everything that suggested that he was forced into anything. He could substitute fear and pain with pleasure. So he did.

He tried not to think what his old therapist would say about his experiments. It was an alternative thing, he reasoned with himself, something different. Psyche is such a personal thing, after all. The mainstream approach hadn't worked for him, so he had to explore anything and everything that could give him hope.

In his head, he was perfectly okay with touch – he craved it, wanted the caresses and the closeness, the most intense acts and the intimacy of coming down in his lover's arms. In reality, he got off to the fantasy countless times over the months, and fell asleep feeling safe and whole afterwards. But whenever he tried to chase that safety with another man, it wasn't there.

Merely imagining it all wasn't helping after all. Only getting to relive it for real would.

And now he would finally have a chance.

* * *

Blaine was relieved to hear that Kurt didn't expect them to replay that long-ago night in any way. He just wanted to finally have sex, nothing more than a hook up.

It didn't sound that bad, and if it wasn't for their first encounter, he'd surely be more than okay with it – enthusiastic even, considering how gorgeous Kurt was, even more so than five years ago. But as it was, as days went by, he was more and more nervous.

It wasn't that he was afraid of the sex – of course not, he'd done it so many times and in such different circumstances that he was pretty sure nothing would be a problem here. No, he was just acutely aware how bad this could go, both for his and Kurt's mental states. They both had some issues after last time – Blaine knew perfectly well just how fucked up _he_ was, and Kurt had admitted that night still affected his life too. Sleeping together again might help – or it might go terribly, dreadfully wrong. Like, mental breakdown level of wrong. And while _he_ knew about it and consciously accepted the risk, he wasn't so sure about Kurt. Then again, Kurt wasn't a kid anymore – he'd grown into an adult, with his own mind and his own decisions, and it wasn't Blaine's job to think for him and protect him.

Still, when that evening came, and Blaine opened the door to find Kurt flushed and excited, the wave of doubt flooded his resolve and bubbled out of him.

"Hi. I was thinking, um – Maybe we should go out on a date first? Or, whatever, not a date, just… get to know each other?" Blaine knew he sounded flustered and unsure, which was _so_ stupid. He wasn't some inexperienced teenager.

But Kurt just made the two steps into the apartment and closed the door behind him. Suddenly his smell was all around Blaine, a cool hand on the side of his neck and soft lips on his, and Blaine gasped in surprise, all hesitation fading into the background, forgotten.

Kurt tasted like peppermint and vanilla chapstick, his tongue bold but gentle as it flickered against the seam of Blaine's lips, causing arousal to spike high and intense without a warning. Hands moving of their own accord to embrace Kurt's waist and pull him closer, Blaine parted his lips in an invitation that was accepted immediately. Kurt deepened the kiss, diving into Blaine's mouth just for a moment to dance teasingly against his tongue. Then he was moving away, leaving Blaine gasping and aching for more contact.

"I'm a Gemini, I grew up in Ohio, my mom died when I was eight and I love Broadway musicals. There, you know me. Now, where's the bedroom?"

By the time Blaine managed to catch his breath and point in the right direction, Kurt had taken off his boots and slipped out of his coat, and was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. Blaine looked at him closely.

"You look awfully excited."

Kurt grinned. "I'm going to have sex. Sure I'm excited." He shrugged a little. "Also, I may have had some wine."

_Uh-oh_. "Are you drunk? We shouldn't do this when you're drunk."

"No! I swear, just a little tipsy. I've only had two glasses. Alcohol just makes me a little bouncy sometimes." He started towards the bedroom, but Blaine stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Kurt. Don't you think this may not be a good idea if you need alcohol to go through with it?"

Kurt shook his head fervently. "I don't need it, though. It was just… in case. To make sure I'm relaxed – I always am after some wine, and relaxed equals good when it comes to sex, right?"

Blaine had to agree, though he still had some doubts. "True. I actually should have thought about it back then, it might have –"

"_No_." Kurt snapped, a sharp edge of finality to his voice. "We don't talk about that night, _ever_." His face softened and he smiled again. "I just didn't want my hypothetical nerves to ruin this. But if you're worried that alcohol will make me do things I wouldn't do otherwise, don't. It doesn't work that way, and I tried. Believe me, I _tried_. My boundaries stay firmly in place, no matter how much I drink. So, can we go to the bedroom now?"

Blaine nodded. Okay. Kurt was free to make his own mistakes. "Be my guest."

Despite his reservations, he'd prepared the bedroom today – cleaned and aired it, put fresh sheets on the bed and supplies on the bedside table. He'd lit a small lamp that gave low, warm light, and put several candles around the room, to light in case Kurt wanted to make it romantic or something.

But as they entered the room, it became clear pretty fast that Kurt didn't much care about the details of his surroundings. He moved back into Blaine's space immediately, his lips returning to where they'd been just a moment before, and Blaine dove into the kiss. It'd been a long time since it had felt like this, just kissing – honest and passionate, all-consuming. Instinctively, he put his hands on Kurt's back and pulled him in closer, releasing him a second later as he realized what he'd done.

It was supposed to be Kurt's night, his pace and his choices.

But Kurt stopped his half-formed apology. "Blaine, I'm not that boy anymore. I haven't been that boy for years. I'm just a guy, we're at your place to have sex, and I want this _so bad_. Please, stop stopping yourself."

Kurt's arms wound around his waist, pulling him closer until he felt his body heat and a very noticeable bulge in his pants. It was enough to let Blaine give up some of the restraint he was trying to hold onto. He'd still let Kurt lead, but Kurt was right. It was basically a hook-up with a gorgeous, enthusiastic man, and Blaine just needed to forget who that man was and take it the way it was given. Or rather, give what was asked of him.

Kurt's lips and hands were eager and certain, and soon they were on the bed, both shirtless and aroused. Blaine couldn't get over how much Kurt enjoyed every touch and kiss, how vocal he was. But then he remembered that Kurt had never really had a chance to simply take pleasure from physical intimacy. He'd never been able to go beyond kisses, he said. Blaine would never guess, given his boldness, but if that was the case, no wonder he reacted so intensely now – years of pent-up desires were finally finding an outlet.

Right now, Kurt was straddling his thighs, touching and kissing every inch of Blaine's neck and chest with his starry eyes open and amazed. Blaine drew his fingernails down Kurt's back and he moaned loudly, his hips staggering against Blaine's erection.

"Oh god… Please, way too many clothes on. I need you naked, now."

"So undress me." Blaine said, voice low and rough, already undone.

It spurred Kurt on; he dropped his own pants and underwear first, and Blaine gasped at the perfection of his naked form. Then he made an express job of Blaine's belt and fly, and after mere seconds Kurt settled back over him, his weight sweet and welcome.

The moment their cocks brushed, Kurt let out such a decadent moan that Blaine felt arousal bubble impatiently in his blood. Kurt's hips were moving in crazy patterns over him, their dicks brushing hot and too dry, and Blaine reached for the bottle of lube, passing it to Kurt. A squelching sound, and soon it was all perfect, slippery pressure, Kurt's moans increasing in frequency – and Blaine acted on instinct. One hand tangling in Kurt's hair, he tugged to have more access to the creamy skin of his long, elegant neck, and bit lightly on the tendon there, sucking, licking, humming against it. The other hand landed on Kurt's bare ass where it fit perfectly against the gentle curve. Pressing down just a bit harder while sucking a mark into the lovely skin, Blaine pushed his hips up once, twice, before he felt Kurt stiffening, heard his voice breaking sharply as he pulsed against him for what felt like forever.

Blaine wasn't there yet, so he waited patiently as Kurt came down from his high, a heavy weight on his chest, panting into the crook of his neck. The moment his breath evened out a little, Kurt rolled off him and raised his head, looking for a tissue. He found a package of moist toilettes instead and cleaned the mess off their stomachs before settling between Blaine's parted legs.

"I want to suck you."

_Mmm… _Blaine reached for a box of flavored condoms and passed one to Kurt, who looked at it, incredulous.

"But... really? You want me to lick that?"

Blaine shrugged. "Well, you can contract STDs through oral sex. And you shouldn't trust me. I always take care to be protected, but I've had many sexual partners so how can you be sure? Especially since I just came back from vacation where I slept with strangers."

He didn't know why he was saying this – put like that, it sounded awfully crude. Surprisingly, Kurt didn't wince or grimace – it was like he expected this from Blaine, like he saw him as sexually promiscuous already. He just took the condom and tore the wrapper, his fingers a little shy and awkward as he slid it – correctly – onto Blaine's length.

He didn't go right to his target, though, spending long minutes mapping Blaine's chest and stomach with his tongue instead. And what a talented tongue it was. By the time Kurt's lips got to the crease of his thigh, Blaine was arching and moaning, close to begging for more. The look on Kurt's face – amazed and delighted – changed briefly to disgust as he swirled his tongue around the head of Blaine's cock for the first time.

"Ew, it tastes like rubber and cough syrup. It's not going to be any fun like this."

The short dance of Kurt's tongue, finally where Blaine wanted it, made him whine at the loss of contact. He was used to the barrier of condom when doing this, so it didn't bother him anymore. Frankly, he barely remembered having sex without them. It had been almost five years since his last real relationship ended. He reached to tangle his fingers in Kurt's hair, just tugging lightly to spur him on.

"You can have all the fun when you're in a monogamous relationship, now please, Kurt – _yes, please, like this_."

Kurt dived down, his lips sliding down Blaine's shaft, warm and snug around it, and Blaine's fingers tightened instinctively. The loud moan that vibrated out of Kurt's throat and through Blaine made him shout out and arch his back as Kurt's tongue moved deftly, as if trying to get acquainted with every vein, curve and ridge. Another breathless moan, and Blaine realized that his fingers were fisted in what must have been a painful hold on Kurt's hair. He released it immediately, murmuring apologies, but Kurt pulled off quickly.

"No, Blaine, you can – I _liked_ it. Don't push me, but wow, I've never thought it would be so hot."

Humming in pleasure at both of Blaine's hands carding through his hair, Kurt went back to his exploration. He mouthed down the side of his cock until his tongue played gently around Blaine's balls, and _god_, where did this kid learn all this?

"Are you sure you've never done this before?" Blaine asked, his voice ragged and breathless. "You're sort of amazing."

"Must be a natural talent. Or all that porn and fantasies." Kurt came back to sliding his mouth down Blaine's cock, before sucking tightly on the upslide, and Blaine had no more words, only incoherent sounds of pleasure and his fingers tugging on Kurt's thick hair. Minutes later, he was shouting out his orgasm, surprised at its intensity. He'd done a lot more, with talented, experienced lovers. And yet this – he hadn't come so hard in a long time.

As soon as he came down from his orgasm, he became aware of two things – the condom still covering his rapidly softening cock and the fact that Kurt, fully hard again, was rubbing against his thigh, mouth half-open in pleasure.

Where was the fun in that?

Quickly getting rid of the condom, Blaine stilled Kurt's hips with a firm hold.

"Wait."

"But you look so hot when you come, I need to – " Another attempt at pressing down, but Blaine didn't let go.

"Wait, I can do you better if you let me."

Kurt's eyes became more focused. "Oh. Okay?"

In one fluid movement, Blaine got out from under Kurt's body, leaving him on his stomach in the tangled sheets. He stroked his fingernails down Kurt's back, a wave of goosebumps following his trail, and then started kissing down the valley of Kurt's spine, right to the adorable twin dimples on the small of his back. He pushed his fingers in them, Kurt's hips stuttering with an impatient whine, and then lightly bit the lovely swell of Kurt's ass. His tongue circling tightly, he slid down the crack before pulling the cheeks apart and diving right in. Kurt cried out a muffled _Ohdeargodpleaseyes_ the second Blaine's tongue made the first contact with the tight pink asterisk of his hole.

Blaine took his time – he enjoyed rimming but didn't get to indulge in it often. Kurt was impeccably clean, trimmed carefully and smelling of some spicy body wash, and it was pure pleasure to lick and kiss the soft skin, teasing with the tip of his tongue on the very edge before pushing in just a bit. Kurt was panting and keening into the pillows, his body tense and trembling with an approaching orgasm and his dick rutting into the sheets. But as Blaine pushed his tongue in deeper, he whined in a high-strung voice.

"More, please, I need your fingers."

Surprised, Blaine pulled off and Kurt growled in frustration.

"Are you sure?"

"Of _course_ I'm fucking sure, how do you think I survived until now without sex? Now, please, Blaine…"

Without further objections, he lubed up and pushed one finger through the ring of muscle. It slid in easily, and Kurt screamed in pleasure. "More."

"Already?"

"More, Blaine dammit."

The second finger went in just as smoothly. Three slides, deep and slow, and Kurt was writhing on the bed, sobbing in release, repeating _Yes_ and _Yes_ and _Fuck yes_.

* * *

They took a little breather after that. Kurt showered while Blaine changed the sheets to avoid dealing with wet spots, and then they lay together, just looking at each other. Kurt couldn't resist reaching across the little bit of space between their naked bodies to play with the hair covering Blaine's chest. Who would have thought he had a thing for that. But then again, he never had much chance to explore his likes and preferences. Watching porn didn't really count as research, after all. Blaine's chest hair was soft and dark, inviting to run fingers through it, and Kurt wondered how it would feel if he nuzzled his cheek against it. One more thing to try.

It wasn't that Kurt had no experience in sexual things – oh no, he'd had plenty since that night five years ago. The problem was, they were all of a solo variety.

Over a year after the kidnapping had passed before he'd decided he was ready for dating. Or – well – his heart had decided. There'd been this one boy in his Theatrical Design class… And he'd even returned Kurt's affections. But it turned out that even the most patient guy would eventually expect more than a kiss. And Kurt had simply frozen, panicked every time it had happened. The lightest touch, the gentlest caress – it was too much.

So they'd fallen apart after a few dates, exchanging apologies and half-hearted promises to stay in touch, and that was it.

Afterwards, Kurt had spent a year trying everything he could think of – experiments with a few different guys, in different circumstances and states of consciousness, and therapy with several different counselors. One of them suggested including a boyfriend in their sessions, but Kurt refused immediately. For one, he didn't really have one, there was no one special whom he might be able to trust enough to share his story with. And it was unlikely he would find one until he dealt with his _problem_. No, he just had to find a way to fight this on his own.

He could do it.

So there were more dates, and more therapy. He'd given up when a sexologist he visited suggested that maybe he wasn't ready to get better yet; that maybe he hadn't grieved losing his virginity the way he had, maybe it was still an unfinished business in his mind.

Now that he thought about it, lying in Blaine's bed, kissing the soft, slightly sweaty skin of his neck and not feeling one bit of anxiety about the intimacy of it, Kurt realized that she may have been right. But back then, he'd thrown a fit and left. Decided to deal with it by himself.

His needs had been growing and slowly, hesitantly at first, he'd begun experimenting with sex – by himself.

Soon, it became clear that it wasn't sex that terrified him so – it was giving up control. Trusting anyone with his body. Alone – Kurt could do anything. But letting another man touch him – at least a man who seemed to want him, sexually – caused panic to take over immediately.

Because how could he be sure they would be kind and gentle, and wouldn't hurt him? That they would stop when he told them to? The first guy he'd ever dated, the one he'd given his first kiss to, had kidnapped him a few days later and sold him into a brothel. And he'd never been with anyone except for that one night – how would he know what was okay and what should cause red lights to go off in his head, when his instincts were so screwed that everything made them go off anyway? He'd seen too much, heard too much during those days when he'd been locked away with the other boys in their attic bedroom. Scars and bruises, and stories of normal, nice men turning into monsters once their lust took control. There was just no way to tell – anyone could be a sick pervert, just trying to gain Kurt's trust, sweet-talk their way into his bed and use him.

No, it was safer to play alone.

Now, almost three years since his first awkward attempts at fingering, the drawer in his bedside table contained several carefully chosen and regularly used toys, and he had quite a lot of experience in virtual and even Skype sex. But all he really wanted was this – warm skin against and around him, insistent lips seeking out the spots on his body that made him shiver, hands stroking, squeezing, grabbing. The melody of moans and pants, the thrum of want in his veins, a real dick inside him.

And now he could finally have it. Because, ironically, despite the forced character of their first encounter, Blaine felt safe like no one else. He'd had a huge part in ruining Kurt's life, yes – but doing so, he'd never, not for one second, been violent or cruel. Quite the contrary – whatever his ulterior motives for taking that mission, he'd made Kurt believe he would take care of him. And he had.

Another deep kiss, and he whispered against Blaine's lips. "Fuck me."

Golden eyes, wide and dazed with desire, focused on his. "Yes. God, yes."

And then there were fingers again, longer than Kurt's or maybe just at a better angle, sliding, stretching, getting where he always needed his dildo to reach, and Kurt was already so far gone he couldn't even talk, could only take it, loud and open, and not even ashamed.

Three fingers, pumping in and out in a steady rhythm, teasing perfectly over that one spot every now and then, and god, how could it be so mind-blowingly good already?

"Blaine, please –"

A crinkle of the condom wrapper, a lewd sound from the lube bottle and then – finally – the blunt pressure, the familiar stretch, stronger with Blaine's cock being a bit larger than Kurt's toys, but so welcome. He knew he was keening, crying out nonsensical words, screaming maybe, but he didn't care. His legs wound tightly around Blaine's tiny waist to spur him on – _harder, faster_ – Kurt was racing towards completion in a whirlwind of pleasure more intense than he'd believed possible. He wanted it to last forever, but all too soon, he felt the waves of his orgasm crashing over him like a tsunami, and he got lost in it, blissfully happy to just flow wherever it would take him.

He came to, hidden in Blaine's arms, feeling so good he didn't really want to move ever again. But a gentle hand stroked a strand of hair off his sweaty forehead and without opening his eyes, Kurt leaned up for a kiss, sweet and soft. He sighed in delight.

"I think you fucked my brains out."

"Is that a bad thing?" There was a smile in Blaine's voice and Kurt felt a sudden need to open his eyes and see it. He didn't regret it – it was _so_ beautiful, warm and carefree, and he realized this was the first time he'd seen Blaine really, truly smile.

"Not at all."

He felt sated, content; sliding slowly towards sleep. With heroic effort, he wiggled out of Blaine's arms and sat on the bed.

"I should go."

Blaine opened his sleepy eyes; he started dozing off too.

"Mm. Or you stay until morning."

He could – he hadn't planned to, but mostly for Blaine's sake; the man probably had to be at the office early and Kurt didn't want to add awkwardness to the morning rush. But since Blaine offered… Kurt honestly didn't feel like leaving the soft, warm bed.

"Is there a chance for a morning quickie if I stay?"

Blaine smirked. "Insatiable, are we? Sure, we can arrange that."

"Deal." He was already settling back into Blaine's embrace, almost humming with pleasure. He'd known that sex _could_ be fantastic – and it was, better than he'd ever imagined – but the simple pleasure of cuddling into another man's warmth like this surprised him. He'd never been a very tactile person, and in the past five years, he'd actively avoided touch. Now it felt like he was starved for it, every nerve ending begging for the soothing contact of another body. He felt a little drunk on it, even though the buzz of wine had long worn off in the intensity of the night.

"Can you tell me something? Honestly?" He didn't know where it came from or why; it just bubbled out of him. Blaine opened his eyes, a little more awake, and considered him for a moment before answering.

"Only if you tell me something in return."

"Why did you go into the FBI?" This wasn't one of the questions Kurt really wanted answers for, but he didn't dare ask those, after all. Not tonight. Probably not ever.

Blaine answered without a pause. "Because my father wanted me to. When was the last time you've been honestly happy?"

Now _that_ was a question Kurt didn't see coming. He had to think for a bit, but even then – "I don't know," he answered, half-surprised. He hadn't thought about happiness for such a long time. It was all about surviving, getting over things, finding a place where he could fit, getting better – always getting better. Happiness was an abstract, something from books and romantic comedies.

Blaine made some kind of noise – understanding? sympathy? – and before Kurt had time to respond in any way, Blaine's eyes closed. His breathing evened out within seconds and just like that, he was asleep. Kurt took a moment to just look at him before switching off the bedside lamp. Blaine's face looked younger like this, the frown lines on his forehead not that pronounced. His jaw was slack and his beautiful (_talented_) lips half open – he didn't look like a tough, hard FBI agent at all.

_Oh well, everyone has a human side_. Kurt shook away the softness creeping in on him, wiggled closer into the delicious warmth and drifted into sleep.

* * *

_Next chapter: __The fallout_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **_Just a reminder – __I won't be posting this weekend, so chapter 8 will be up on Monday. Also, I feel obliged to warn you that Jenni, my beta, was yelling at the characters a LOT while reading this chapter. Idk, they may be a little... annoying? *hides*_

* * *

**CHAPTER 7: The fallout**

The promised morning quickie turned into a bit of a sex-marathon. It was nearing ten o'clock when they broke apart to lay side by side on the bed, sweaty and panting heavily.

"Best. Sex. Ever." Kurt was evidently starting to get his breath back after riding him for the last twenty minutes. Blaine still had trouble catching his. Damn, he was getting old. His answer was more of a croak.

"Doesn't mean much, coming from you."

"Still."

They stayed like this for a while longer and Blaine was starting to doze when Kurt prodded him with a sharp finger. "Aren't you going to be in trouble for missing work?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I'm not missing work."

Kurt frowned. "But it's Wednesday. Don't tell me FBI agents get free Wednesdays?"

_Oh._ Right. Kurt didn't know. "I'm not FBI anymore."

"Oh."

That was it. No follow-up questions. No request for explanation. If Kurt asked, if he actually _wanted_ to know, Blaine would tell him how –

But would he?

What right did he have to burden this kid with his own crap? Kurt had enough on his plate without Blaine's loser stories of cracking under the pressure of his first serious case and leaving the Bureau like a dog with his tail between his legs. He didn't need to know about Blaine's mess of a life, with his inability to move on and his shitty coping techniques. They each carried their own piece of that old hell with them – no use playing show-and-tell and comparing war wounds.

This night together was a bad idea, but he'd accepted it. It even turned out to be fun. Okay, it was fucking unbelievable, who was he kidding? But it was a one-time thing, a strictly _sexual_ thing, nothing else. Not some sort of therapy, not a weepy reunion or a happily ever after story of forgiveness. Life didn't work that way. In a moment, they would go their own ways and never meet again. Nothing would change, for Blaine at least.

Kurt went to take a shower, surprisingly bouncy for someone who got fucked twice in the last twelve hours after having virtually no sex before. For a moment, Blaine heard him hum over the sound of running water, but then he went quiet. When he came back, there was a towel around his waist and something hard in his eyes. They didn't talk much.

There were neither handshakes nor hugs as they said their goodbyes, not even awkwardness filling the space where there could be some.

Kurt said, "Thank you."

Blaine answered, "You're welcome. I owed you, after all."

Kurt nodded. "Yes. You owed me."

The door closed between them.

* * *

Blaine resurfaced after three days this time – not a record by any means, but still more than his usual _down_ times. When he came to, he was sprawled on the couch, still fully dressed from the run to the liquor store after Kurt had left. His head was pounding, he was sweaty and disgusting, reeking of whiskey and garlic sauce – well, at least he'd had the brains to eat something this time; pizza, judging by the leftovers on the table. Leaning heavily on the back of the couch, Blaine stood up and stumbled towards the bathroom.

Hangovers were no stranger to him – he'd done this so many times before that it'd become second nature. Clothes straight into the washer. Warm shower, not hot, with a blast of icy cold at the end. Mint body wash. Teeth brushing. The bare minimum.

A call to the usual pizza place for a greasy breakfast. Coffee, extra strong. Painkillers. He'd survive. Feeling like crap wasn't anything new, after all.

Feeling _used_ was.

Having sex with Kurt had felt incredible, while it lasted. For a moment, with Kurt's eager mouth on him, Blaine even had a feeling like it was washing away the old sin. Like having consensual sex with Kurt was somehow the way to fix it – fix _him_.

But it was bullshit, all of it. Fucking illusion. He was just a tool, a live handle to his cock that was supposed to magically heal Kurt's fear of men. Because Blaine _owed_ him.

And who owed Blaine, huh?

Feeling more bitter than usual, he ate and switched on his computer. There were new job offers in his inbox, sent by his agent. He scrolled through them quickly, discarding most of them on the spot - he wouldn't be able to write anything remotely cheerful or romantic for weeks.

Then he found something that piqued his interest.

A leader of a heavy-metal band wanted to publish a book that would strengthen his image as dark, sadistic and macabre. It was supposed to be a small collection of short horror stories with elements of gore.

That would fit Blaine's current mood pretty well. He opened the response window.

* * *

Getting to where he was now, professionally, had been a process.

After that nightfive years ago, he'd known he wouldn't be able to go back to the Bureau. He'd spent the whole next day curled on the floor in his bathroom, completely out of control. He'd been shaking, he'd been puking his guts out; there were tears and screaming in a blind rage, and punching the wall by the tub until his knuckles bled. Finally, when he exhausted himself completely, he took a shower, hot enough to burn but nowhere near enough to wash off the filth of what he'd done, and he went to bed. He fell asleep immediately and had no dreams. Those would start later.

The next morning he sent his letter of resignation to the FBI. He used up all his time off to avoid getting back to work for the resignation period, and he never set foot in that building again.

The Bureau wanted to keep him, god knows why. They tried to convince him – an FBI-appointed psychologist visited him half a dozen times to "help him through the trauma", but Blaine never let her in. Same with his colleagues. Bobby called a few times, but Blaine couldn't even listen to his voice. Everyone kept telling him that he'd done a good thing, he'd saved those kids, especially the beaten one, Philip, who wouldn't have survived otherwise. Blaine's own father joined the chorus, but his attempts at marginalizing "the incident" had exactly the opposite effect. Besides, nothing could convince Blaine to go back there. He was done with the FBI – disappointed in it, distrustful of his superiors, sick with working in law enforcement. He wasn't strong enough for it.

Luckily, he was never asked to testify in the case he'd helped to make – whether it was because his recordings were enough or the FBI decided he wouldn't be a believable witness in his current state, it was a blessing.

It took him a long while to find another job – or even start looking. His savings were enough to support him during those months spent simply vegetating in his apartment. Between the nightmares, the insomnia and the drinking, he was nowhere near sane enough to work. He was unraveling, slowly but surely going down, until a miraculous moment of whiskey-induced inspiration booked him a plane ticket to Paris.

Twelve days far, far away changed him from a wreck into a relatively sane man. For the first time in months, he didn't obsess about what had happened or what he'd done. It was a relief he really needed.

Of course, it could have had something to do with the fact that he'd never really sobered while there, experiencing the city in a string of dizzy pictures, laughter and lots of sex with beautiful, eager men whose names Blaine hadn't even tried to remember.

It wasn't a cure, but for a band-aid, it worked pretty great.

After he'd come back, Melanie, his friend from law school and the only person who stuck by him at that point, brought him a job offer. She'd been writing for some magazines, answering law-related questions from the readers, but with a new steady job, she had no more time for that. So she asked him to take over. That was the beginning.

Very soon, Blaine discovered that writing came easily to him; it was something as natural as breathing, and a way to keep obsessive thoughts and memories at bay. Plus, he could work whenever he wanted – or was able to. No one cared if he couldn't come to work after a particularly bad night or needed a nap in the afternoon to get a few hours of sleep before another. Even when he drank himself into oblivion or went on a gay-bar crawl, no one asked questions – as long as the deadlines were met. And they always were. Work was his escape, his salvation, usually the only one. He could get up or sober up, no matter the hour, and sit down to work, getting lost in it for long hours at a time.

Soon, he became a freelancer. He started writing longer articles, too, and not just law-related anymore. He was quite versatile. At some point, someone asked if he would write a long autobiographical text in someone else's name. He agreed. He didn't care about getting published as himself. He only wrote to fill his time and chase away his demons. Well, and pay the rent.

Ghostwriting was the next logical step – a flash of drunken genius that he managed to remember the next morning only because he'd written it on his hand with a sharpie. He found the first few jobs himself, and then, when he was sure this was what he wanted, he found an agent. That was three and a half years ago. Nowadays, he wrote books and articles, dozens of pages every week. But if you looked up Blaine Anderson, you wouldn't find a connection to any of them. They were under a lot of different names – names belonging to strangers, some of them pretty well known. His words were praised and critiqued, loved and hated – he didn't care. He just caught them and trapped them on pages, and then let them go their own way.

He wasn't rich, but he could live comfortably, and he didn't need much anyway. It wasn't like he had a family or kids or a lovely little house in the suburbs in his future. Not anymore.

* * *

As the weeks passed since the night spent with Kurt, Blaine settled back into his old routine. He'd been right: it hadn't changed anything. He was just as bitter and disenchanted as ever. There was no enlightenment, no sudden self-forgiveness or realization that he should move on. His life was what it was, and he was fine with it. He wrote, he read, he watched mindless TV. Sometimes there were bad nights, or days when he drank himself into a stupor; sometimes he tried to wipe the memories by adding even more layers of eager, anonymous touches on top. But he could live with these. He was used to it. He was fine.

* * *

It took Kurt almost all the way back home to understand his sudden mood dampening back in Blaine's shower. It had been weird: one second he'd been great; really, truly excellently fucked, still blissed out from his last orgasm, with so many endorphins in his blood it was probably glittery pink, and then, _poof_ – he was irritated and sullen again.

Because it wasn't _real_.

_That_ was the reason. It had been an amazing, unforgettable night with a gorgeous man who turned out to be a skillful, generous lover and a charming person. _Whoa_, that was a shitload of superlatives, but honestly. That _man_. He would be so close to Kurt's idea of the perfect guy it was creepy.

If he was real.

But he wasn't – the Blaine that Kurt had seen last night and this morning didn't exist. It was just an act, a part he probably played for all his sex partners. All of his _numerous_ sex partners. The reality was much less dreamy and a lot uglier. No, Kurt didn't think that Blaine was a bad man – not at all. He just couldn't imagine how cold and hard he had to be deep down to have taken such a mission, with everything it entailed. How little emotion he had to hide under this kind, thoughtful façade.

Yes, he knew he shouldn't care at all – no matter who Blaine was, he'd saved them all, and the way he'd done it… it could have been so much worse. And last night, he gave Kurt exactly what he'd asked for – amazing sex with no strings attached. Who cared if he was a cold-blooded bastard underneath?

But Kurt couldn't help it – the jarring difference between the illusion of a man he'd shared a bed with and the reality that hit him in the shower was simply too much.

Well, at least now he knew why he felt so frustrated – and could let it go. There was nothing Kurt could do about Blaine – nothing he needed to do. He'd gotten what he'd asked for; more than that, in fact. He'd never dreamed their night would be _that_ good. But it was a one-time thing, in the past already – and now he just needed to check if his plan worked, like he'd been sure it would. Secretly, he had a good feeling about it. He felt loose and confident in a way he hadn't known before, like he had full control of his body and no one could take it away from him. Seeing an attractive man look at you as if you were the most beautiful thing ever; watching him fall apart under your lips and fingers, your words… it was definitely a boost.

Immersed in a lemon and sage-scented bubble bath later that afternoon, Kurt started to think about his next steps. He didn't want to dive right into dating or go to a gay bar and look for an eager stranger to check if his barriers still existed. Not that he excluded either of these possibilities at some more distant point. But now… he needed safety. Someone familiar who wouldn't care about being a guinea pig of sorts.

Wait… how about Paul?

Paul was a friend from college, one of the few Kurt still met with sometimes. He was bisexual and absolutely smitten with Kurt in a completely non-romantic way. It was just sexual, or maybe not even that – Paul just couldn't stop staring at Kurt's lips and his hands every time they met for coffee or drinks. He was open about it, too; about the way he felt that kissing Kurt, touching him would be absolutely delicious. They were close enough that Kurt had told him about his _problems_ with that, although he'd glossed over the reason. Still, every now and then Paul renewed his offer – if at any time Kurt was interested in some hot little something, no strings attached, he'd be there.

It looked like that time had come.

Kurt would lie if he said he didn't consider his friend attractive and even though he had no intention to do anything much yet, he had a feeling Paul wouldn't mind a little make-out session just for fun. Grinning wickedly, Kurt jumped out of the tub. He only had another event to work at tomorrow afternoon. Drinks tonight at his place sounded like an excellent idea.

Paul was all for it, and by midnight Kurt knew several things already. First and most important, he knew that he no longer reacted to touch in any way other than desirable. He was still a little wary, but was able to let go enough to enjoy himself. Other than that, he found that he didn't particularly like biting, that different hands could feel _very_ different as they touched and wandered, and that coming in his pants was something he would avoid from now on. All in all, it was a very educational day.

* * *

During the following weeks and months Kurt learned plenty more – about men and dating and sex, but most of all, about himself.

He let himself try and experiment, now that he finally could. He visited clubs and gay bars sometimes; he dated. He kissed and made out; there was a lot of groping and quite a lot of grinding, on and off the dance floor; there were even a few hurried handjobs.

There was never anything more. He couldn't get himself to go further than that.

Not because of his old barriers, though. This was something different entirely: self-respect. After everything he'd been through, sexually – or maybe _because_ of all that, he still saw sex and intimacy as something precious, not to be given away or sold cheap. He wanted it with someone he could trust, someone he felt something for – not necessarily in a _forever_ kind of way. Just, not a stranger, or a one-night stand. And ironically, now that he was ready to have a boyfriend at last, there was no one around fit to fill that gap. It was frustrating as hell.

Not having sex had been bad enough before he knew just how amazing it could be. But now, after Blaine had showed him the ocean of pleasure just waiting to be had… he craved that _so much_. He wasn't going to throw away his reservations, though, and let the next half-passable guy fuck him on a first date.

But... after four months and a lot of deliberation, he decided there was something else he could do.

* * *

_Next chapter: __The deal_


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8: The deal**

"No." Blaine said the moment he opened the door one day in June and saw the angelic features of his favorite ghost from the past. Well, his only actual ghost from the past. There to haunt him again.

"Blaine, could we just talk? Please?" Kurt spoke in his dangerously silky voice and _fuck_, it was such a bad day for this, whatever _this _was.

"I'm on a deadline. I've been writing all night and still have plenty to do before tomorrow, so forgive me, but I'm not in the mood to talk." Hesitation flashed through Kurt's face, followed by something akin to desperation, and Blaine hated himself already for the way he was falling for this. "Okay, five minutes. I need more coffee anyway."

He turned and walked away to the kitchen; leaving Kurt to find his way in if he wanted to. What had he brought with him this time? Nothing good, that was certain.

* * *

He was right, of course – it wasn't good, it was a disaster waiting to happen, and Kurt was crazy even considering this. Really, he should get his head checked because this just wasn't happening.

"Absolutely not."

"But Blaine – "

"Wasn't that what you wanted? Freedom to date, to touch and fuck whoever you want? Well, it worked, halleluiah! You're free to go and be merry, and keep me out of this."

"But Blaine, that's just it – I don't want to just go and hook up, I want sex in a relationship and –"

"And you come to _me _with that?" Really, was his mind playing games with him after too many hours spent staring at the screen? Did he actually fall asleep and was now having some fucked up dream? "I'm pretty sure you don't want to have a relationship with _me_. And if you do, you should go look up Stockholm syndrome and then run right the fuck to therapy."

"It wouldn't be exactly Stockholm syndrome, you know. But of _course_ I don't want to have a relationship with you." Kurt was irritated now, the pleading notes in his voice hardening. "But you're an exception, don't you see? I already had sex with you, and it wasn't in a relationship, and yet you're not a stranger, and we could just... keep doing that?" The ending sounded a lot less convincing than the beginning, and for a good reason, because come _on_!

"And why would we want to do that?" Blaine raised an eyebrow and rubbed his hand over his unshaven face.

"Because the sex was amazing, so we're definitely compatible, and it would have no strings attached, no exclusivity or anything. And it could be fun and… and –"

Blaine wasn't about to make it easy for him. His voice dripping sarcasm, he asked, "So you're basically telling me why I should keep doing what I'm doing whenever I need to get laid. The question is, why with you? It would clearly be all kinds of toxic and unhealthy, considering our past."

"Because I'm horny, okay?" It was a shout, and Kurt blushed at the confession, but plowed on. "Because it was so fucking _good_, and now I want more, but I don't want to sleep around. I want a boyfriend, but I don't have one, and I'm going crazy in the meantime, so I need a way to use up years of pent up hormones, Blaine. And I know you have hotter, more experienced lovers left and right, but I can learn. I _want_ to learn. I just need a fuck buddy until I meet someone I want to be with, okay?"

_Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was _such_ a disaster, and Blaine would surely want to smack himself upside the head once he started thinking clearly. But the truth was, the sex _was_ exquisite. The intensity of it – it was so much more than just basic release. It was pure passion, whether born from hate or disgust or whatever was there in the flammable air between them – it didn't matter. Blaine wanted more too. He'd just never let himself even think about it.

"Non-exclusive." He heard himself say before he even realized he'd made the decision.

"Yes."

"We only meet here, and only for sex. The past and any emotions stay behind that door. Either of us can end this immediately without explanation."

"Okay." There was hope in Kurt's voice and his seawater eyes.

"And the minute you get a boyfriend, it's goodbye, for good."

"Of course."

"Okay. Now go, I have to finish this book before I collapse. I'll call you." He left Kurt to let himself out, took his cup of coffee back to the desk and dove back into the world of cheap plastic surgery and its victims. He didn't even hear Kurt shut the door behind himself.

* * *

The moment Blaine woke up from the 10-hour sleep after sending away the manuscript, he started regretting his promise, just like he knew he would. All the _leaving the past behind the door_ crap might be good in theory, and maybe Kurt would be able to forget about what they'd been through while he was here – but really? Blaine _lived_ that past. It was what had shaped his life, turned it upside down, never to look the same. He couldn't leave it behind some door, because it was here, inside – all the memories, all the darkest moments and broken dreams and the quiet hopelessness. And there was no way every meeting with Kurt wouldn't just push the knife in deeper. For his own sanity, Blaine should delete Kurt's number, change his own and move out, leaving no forwarding address, so Kurt could never find him again. But apparently he was a masochist, eager to do his penance over and over again, clawing the old wounds open as if letting even more blood out could change anything, wash away he old sin.

Of course, there was a part of him that was looking forward to seeing Kurt, touching Kurt, having sex with Kurt. It was the part that was so bruised and covered with scars that it was long numbed and immune to the torment Blaine clearly liked to inflict upon himself. This was the part that was responsible for him surviving so long, for every rational, cold decision he made and every time he got up and went on. Sometimes Blaine wished this part would grow and swallow the rest – it would be so easy to be hardened, unfeeling, rational; to live on this very basic level and just enjoy the simple things. Like the prospect of sex with a hot guy who didn't expect anything else.

Seeing how he'd already agreed to this insanity, Blaine decided to just go with this part and have fun, and deal with consequences later, if need be. Still, it took him another two days to call Kurt and tell him that he was free that evening, and open to propositions.

Considering how hard it had been to actually do this, he was surprisingly disappointed when he heard Kurt groan with frustration.

"Dammit, I've got a conference to work, I have to be there in two hours and won't be free for three days. Unless –"

"Unless?"

There was a moment of hesitation, then, "Unless I could drop by on my way for a… a –"

"A quickie? Only if you come already prepared." It was a joke, really. He didn't actually think Kurt would, but the kid surprised him again. It was becoming a habit, honestly.

"Alright. Give me an hour." He hung up, leaving Blaine standing there with his phone in his hand, arousal fresh and intoxicating in his blood.

* * *

It only took Kurt forty-five minutes, in the end.

Blaine pulled him into the bedroom as soon as he opened the door, and before Kurt could say anything, he was being pressed face-first against the bedroom wall, Blaine's lips on his neck and his hands undoing Kurt's pants with well-practiced ease.

"That okay?" He murmured right into Kurt's ear.

"Perfect." Kurt's voice was high and breathy. "Just, no marks in visible areas, I'm working toni-_ahh._"

Blaine's fingers slid right between his ass cheeks and the only noises that followed were less than coherent.

Blaine had trouble keeping his own head. Under his fingertips, Kurt was wet and slippery, and so very open and pliant that his fingers dipped right in – two, then immediately three, and he couldn't keep in a moan, imagining Kurt stretching and opening himself for him. Grabbing a condom from his pocket, he tore the packet impatiently, and within seconds he was pushing in, Kurt's hands flexing against the wall and his head thrown back.

For a quickie, it was surprisingly long. Blaine used the time they had up to the very last minute, fucking Kurt slowly and deliciously until he shook and begged, until his legs no longer supported him and only Blaine's weight pinning him to the wall and Blaine's arm around his waist kept him from crumbling to the floor. Only then Blaine took pity on him and with a dozen strong snaps of his hips brought them both to a well-deserved end. By that time, Kurt only had five minutes to catch a breath, clean himself up and run, still with that dazed, stunned expression on his face, his cheeks pink and lips deliciously red.

Blaine let him out with a crooked smile and a short "Call me."

* * *

And he did. Repeatedly over the next few months.

They met as often as several times a week, sometimes – just for an hour or a few at first, for quick, hot, uncomplicated sex that left them exhausted and satisfied until next time. Kurt was insatiable and passionate, unrestrained in his reactions and unashamed to ask for what he wanted. Amazed, Blaine asked him about it once – about this confident sexiness, and Kurt actually blushed, pausing where he was sucking a mark over Blaine's hipbone.

"Um, actually, it's just with you. When I tried with other guys… tried anything, I mean, I still felt like a first timer. But here – I don't know, it's like… you've seen me like this; you've seen me worse. And in all the dreams and memories –" He stumbled a little. "I'm sorry, I know, not talking about this. Anyway, it feels like you've seen me a thousand times. Touched me, undressed me. And I've seen you. So no, no self-consciousness left. Just want."

And that was enough for Blaine. They didn't talk much in general – mostly just praises and exclamations, and pleads for more, faster, harder, _now_. Sometimes, when they had more time and lay there, catching their breath before they went back for more, they played a little question and answer game – nothing important, just trivia really, something to fill the silence. "What's your biggest passion?", one of them would ask, or "What's your earliest memory?", or maybe, "Have you ever had a pet?". The other would answer and usually either reverse the question, or ask another. It felt nice to learn these little things about Kurt.

It felt nice in general – a fact that astounded Blaine every single time. Sex with Kurt turned out to be like any of his usual hook-ups, only much better. They held onto the "sex only" rule, not expecting more from each other, but at the same time he had a beautiful, hot, eager man in his own bed so often that even his rather high needs were satisfied. He didn't have to waste his time on the pre/post-sex mating rituals that he never really cared for with his one-night stands. His consciousness stayed quiet, apparently satisfied with their rules. No reason to complain, really.

In late July, nearly two months into their arrangement, Kurt stayed the night for the second time, too exhausted after a full day of work and two orgasms to even stand up straight. When he snuggled into Blaine's chest and fell asleep, the first weak flutter of discomfort danced under Blaine's ribs. It felt too intimate, and shook the memories awake. Kurt looked so young and vulnerable asleep.

But it was still fine, and the sleepovers didn't happen often after that anyway. It wasn't a problem.

In spite of himself, Blaine was starting to believe that he would survive this, unscathed.

* * *

_Next chapter: __A slippery slope_


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **_Oh look, an update :) I may be able to give you one a day until the weekend again, but no promises. I still need to polish each chapter before posting, and between work, my preschooler being home sick, lack of sleep and writing the LPP sequel, it's a challenge. But I'm excited to share the rest of this story with you, so I'll do my best. Just, please forgive me if I fail to reply to your lovely comments. They always make me grin and flail, and make my days so much brighter, and I love you for taking the time to share your reactions and opinions – I just don't always have enough hours in the day to do it all._

_Also, I admit I'm ridiculously happy with how this chapter flows._

* * *

**CHAPTER 9: A slippery slope**

Kurt hadn't felt so _good_ for such a long period in years. And not just physically, though he had to admit that being sexually active added a new spring to his step and a loose, contented feeling to his body. But it was most noticeable in his mood and demeanor. He started smiling, became more sociable – the girls at work could hardly believe it these last couple of months. Somewhere along the way, he lost most of his bitchy, irritable attitude.

And the fact that he'd been working at the same place for over six months now was unprecedented, too. Of course, it was more of a result of his new, happier attitude than his satisfied libido, but still, Kurt was sure there was a connection.

Amazing what regular, good sex can do.

Even his father, hearing him on the phone one day, asked him if he was in love. Kurt laughed and told him that no, he wasn't, he just felt good. But his secret was tickling his tongue, eager to slip out, so he let himself share just a little.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe who I met during an event recently. Matt, remember him? Well, actually, his name is Blaine. The agent who –"

His dad's gruff voice interrupted him, notes of concern sneaking in. "Of course I remember, kiddo. How is he?"

How is _he_?

"He's _fine_." Kurt could basically hear himself pout, which of course meant his dad heard it too.

"Oh shush, I know that _you_ are fine, I can hear it. And that guy saved your life. Give him a break."

Kurt couldn't help but grumble. Right. He may be having sex with Blaine but that didn't change anything about their past. He still believed that Blaine should suffer _some_ consequences of that night too, silly and vengeful as it may seem to others. It was just how Kurt felt.

The funny thing was, he never actually felt that way while at Blaine's. The past didn't exist there, nothing mattered really except for what they let into the bubble of _here_ and _now_ – amazing sex between two single, hot-blooded men who liked each other's company and found they had a surprising amount of things in common, sometimes. In there, everything was simple.

It didn't matter that Kurt still hated Blaine a little when he came home – Blaine the client, Blaine the agent who'd never cared about what happened to Kurt after that night.

It was different. They were two separate people in Kurt's mind. It worked.

He was grumpy for a few hours after the conversation with his dad, but soon it passed as he felt himself pulled toward the magnetic field that was Blaine yet again. So he gave in and went to him. No thinking about their past. No feelings or memories. Just Blaine's body, always so hot and so good at pleasing Kurt in every possible way. Just sex, slower and more languid lately as the initial impatience wore off and they started to take their time to taste and experience.

Kurt had been staying more nights in the last month or so, and they usually put off sleep until the wee hours of the morning, prolonging the pleasure, making it exquisite and elaborate, squeezing out every last drop of bliss until they could barely move. They talked a little bit more, too, their game of questions and answers getting more frequent and more interesting as time went by. They weren't just exchanging little details anymore. Kurt learned about Blaine's first boyfriend and his first time, and told Blaine about his experiences as the only openly gay kid in his high school. They discovered their shared history of singing in Glee clubs. Once, Blaine asked what Kurt was most proud of ("_I survived_."), and then dodged the same question by distracting Kurt with his impossibly talented lips. This had become their thing – whenever one of them didn't want to answer a question, he just brought them back down into the safe territory of sex again.

Blaine himself had been slowly changing, too. Back when this thing between them had started, it was not unusual to find Blaine waiting for him with a cloudy expression, a frown of barely-hidden disapproval. And it was okay – Kurt knew full well that Blaine didn't think this arrangement of theirs was a good idea, but frankly, he didn't care. He was in it for the sex, not sweet words or warm fuzzy feelings. And once they got to the bedroom, or wherever they were fucking that particular day, Blaine always turned into a gracious, generous lover who spared no effort to make Kurt feel special and cared for. So what if he was back to his cool, jaded self by the time Kurt got dressed, sometimes even sitting back down to his laptop before Kurt left?

But lately – as Kurt realized one morning when he got out of the shower and found a cup of coffee waiting for him on the kitchen table – there had been no grumpy Blaine around at all. Now that he thought back, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like he was taking Blaine away from something more important, or wasting his time. It felt as if Blaine had finally accepted their weird non-relationship, and allowed himself to enjoy it, no longer in a hurry to just push Kurt out the door as soon as they were done coming.

Not that Kurt cared, or anything. But... it felt nice.

* * *

Blaine was in trouble.

The first time Kurt brought a basket of grapes for them "to enjoy in between orgasms", Blaine thought nothing of it. They ate in bed, juice splashing everywhere when they attempted to turn it into a sex game, eating the fruit off each other, and they ended up giggly and winded in a sticky, sweet mess pressing together impatiently, grabbing and sliding and moaning, which only resulted in an even bigger mess, and then obligatory showers and sheet changing. It was fun.

But after a while it turned into a somewhat regular occurrence. Not every time, but often Kurt would bring things with him – fruit or chocolate, or wine, even a bottle of champagne once, leftover from some event where no one seemed to care how much alcohol had been actually drunk. And there was nothing wrong with that, of course – why would there be? – except Blaine couldn't help thinking that it didn't feel right.

Feeding each other fruit in bed, smearing chocolate all over the other's skin only to lick it off eagerly, kissing the taste of wine off each other's lips – it felt like more than what he'd bargained for. It was supposed to be sex, plain and simple, and this just felt like... a step further. A small step, not enough to worry about – it was easy to convince himself that it was just a part of their expanding sexual experiences – but a step nonetheless.

Finding the balance between what was right and wrong when it came to Kurt was hard, anyway. Blaine had always thought he had a good intuition, and used to go with his gut feeling when it came to connections and relationships, back when he had any to speak of. But this thing they had defied any attempts of categorization and processing. It was all in the grey zone, and Blaine had already ignored his instincts when it came to Kurt so many times that they didn't help at all anymore.

So he only gasped softly, surprised, when Kurt cuddled close to spoon him from behind one night and started kissing his shoulder, gentle, slow presses of his beautiful lips. Kurt's hand wound over Blaine's stomach, fingers tracing the skin there almost tenderly, and Blaine's heart sped up to an anxious staccato.

This wasn't sex. They had exhausted their capabilities for that night and turned off the lights to get some rest – so it wasn't an invitation for more. It didn't feel like one, either.

They did cuddle in their sleep sometimes when Kurt stayed the night – sort of, at least. A head on a shoulder or a belly, legs tangled in sleep, Kurt's face tucked under Blaine's chin and his breath tickling Blaine's collarbone. But that was different, that felt... practical. The bed wasn't particularly big – it was only natural they'd end up tangled together sometimes.

This, however, felt deliberate and heart-clenchingly sweet, and for a moment Blaine couldn't breathe, tears stinging his eyes, because his body remembered other times. Old, precious times when falling asleep like this was as natural and certain as the future he was supposed to have.

But it was back when his life made sense – now, with Kurt, it was anything but normal, such a sharp contrast to their usual behavior that Blaine's first instinct was to pull away immediately. It was too much, they were getting too close. It could only end in disaster.

But his traitorous body wouldn't budge. It was immediately enamored with the tenderness of Kurt's touches, the softness of his lips on the nape of Blaine's neck. The sure support of Kurt's body against his back, the comfort of being held close and tight, feeling safe and cared for. It had been _years_. He hadn't allowed himself the comfort of letting go, of feeling safe in anyone's embrace for so fucking long that now, with Kurt's movements slowing down to a stop and his breath deepening against Blaine's neck, he was unable to deny himself this bit of comfort. He fell asleep enveloped in Kurt's warmth that penetrated to his very bones, and for that one night, with this basic, long-forgotten comfort, he almost felt happy.

Later, in the light of day, all of Blaine's doubt and hesitation looked silly and unfounded when Kurt stirred against him, already hard and seductive. So the next time spooning happened, Blaine didn't question it for a second. He just took it and enjoyed while it lasted.

It was no big deal, just like the goodbye kisses that started at some point and soon became routine. It was just how it was between Kurt and him. Part of the play, no need to overanalyze.

* * *

The first actual warning bell, loud and clear, came a few weeks later, on a cloudy September morning when Kurt rushed out of the bathroom, steamed-pink and gorgeously naked, and started to pull on fresh clothes in a hurry, almost late for work. Blaine was still lounging in bed, half-awake and warm, watching the scene in front of him with sated satisfaction.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," Kurt said, jumping a little to pull up the skinny jeans over still-damp skin. "I left a toothbrush in the bathroom, and my shampoo. There's no use bringing them over every time when I'm here so often. I hope you don't mind." A t-shirt, light jacket, one last glance in the mirror and Kurt was grabbing his bag, ready to run out the door. "Okay, gotta go, I'll call you, bye!"

With a quick kiss and a wave, he was gone, and Blaine was left staring into the empty space where Kurt had just been, his mouth open and words frozen on his lips.

_This_ was definitely too much – no confusion about them crossing a line here. It was clearly no longer a simple, purely sexual thing when you started leaving things at your lover's place. Even if they were insubstantial, everyday things like a toothbrush. Maybe especially then.

For a moment, Blaine considered calling Kurt and telling him – but it was no use, he probably wouldn't answer now anyway, and even if he did, it wasn't a thing to discuss in a rushed phone conversation, with one of them in a public place.

And besides, what would he say? _I'm not okay with your things in my bathroom, please take them away_? That sounded wrong even in his own head. Bitchy and uptight, and kind of mean, like he begrudged Kurt this tiny bit of space. It wasn't as if Kurt had brought half of his wardrobe here, after all, or even anything personal. It was just a spare toothbrush. You could have those at a friend's house. It wasn't that big a deal.

It _felt_ like a big deal – and Blaine recognized that – because leaving items at each other's houses spoke of intimacy to him. This was the level where his last relationship had been before it ended – possessions strewn between two apartments, just before he'd had a chance to ask his boyfriend to move in. He still remembered the sense of belonging when he woke up in Ethan's apartment and could just open the drawer and pick up some fresh clothes that he'd always had there, or drink coffee from his favorite mug.

But now, here – it was just a toothbrush and some shampoo. He was overreacting, most people would say. Yes, he had an issue with Kurt leaving his things here, and yes, he would tell him about it if he ever wanted to leave anything more personal than hygiene products. But for now, he would just let it be.

Still, the bright blue toothbrush in a cup next to his green one made something twist in him a little every time he went to the bathroom in the next few days.

But then he got used to it.

* * *

"Can I ask a question?" Kurt was lying on his stomach between Blaine's parted legs, his fingers tracing maddening little circles over the sensitive skin of his inner things and around his balls.

"Since when do you ask for permission?" Blaine groaned and tried to arch his hips closer to Kurt's glorious mouth, but Kurt only licked a single slow stripe up the length of his cock and pulled away again. When Blaine looked down at him, not above pleading anymore, he saw a flicker of uncertainty in Kurt's eyes – enough to get him back to earth quickly. "Okay, ask."

Kurt kept his eyes focused on his still moving fingers. "Do you ever bottom?"

_Whoa._

There was no way Kurt could miss the sudden interested jerk of Blaine's cock just inches from his face. Or his sharp inhale. But verbal answer would probably be good too, just as soon as Blaine remembered how his throat worked.

"Um. Not in years."

Blush spreading over his cheekbones and his eyes still averted, Kurt nodded with finality and reached for a condom, clearly ready to stop teasing and blow Blaine at last – but was stopped by a steady hand on his chin. Blaine made sure their eyes met before he spoke again.

"I haven't done it in years because it's much too intimate and intense for me to do with casual one-night partners. I used to bottom quite often though. When I was in a long-term relationship. Why do you ask?"

Kurt just shook his head, his discomfort palpable.

"Kurt. Just... ask me." Blaine waited, the trembling inside him an equal measure of thrill and nerves. His voice was breaking softly when he whispered, a heartbeat later. "I _want_ you to ask me."

A pause, a shuddering breath, a look so vulnerable it hurt. "Would you let me top you?"

"_Yes_."

* * *

The fingers in him were long and slender, moving with inexpert, careful precision, but already it felt better than Blaine's own hand ever could. He loved this, and missed it more than he let himself remember, and now every slide and twitch of Kurt's fingers was bringing back forgotten sensations.

He was twenty-five the last time it felt this good – with a boyfriend he loved, a job that challenged and fulfilled him, and a bright future ahead. It hadn't been long before the assignment that would change his life forever, and the sad thing was, Blaine didn't even remember any details about that last time. It must have been good, because it always was with Ethan, but there was nothing different or special enough that would stick in Blaine's mind. It was just a normal part of their everyday lives. Except it _was_ special because, though neither of them knew, it was the last time.

He did try bottoming again later, twice – in anonymous hotel rooms, with guys that were as eager as they were meaningless. But it was too much, he felt way too vulnerable for such a casual setting, and the discomfort soon stopped him from chasing that particular pleasure ever again. He could live without being penetrated.

But now Blaine was here, and so was Kurt – awed, focused, with that almost shocked look on his face as his fingers sank into Blaine's body over and over again. Kurt looked so young like this, so earnestly concerned every time Blaine's body twitched or a gasp escaped his mouth. Blaine bit his lip against the flood of sensations, because he wasn't usually loud, not in anything but this, and he didn't want to freak Kurt out. It was a lost battle, he knew, but he tried anyway, as long as he could.

"More." He rasped a while later, the word chased by a shameless moan, and Kurt whimpered, wide-eyed and flushed as he spread and twisted his fingers again. "Fuck, Kurt. _Need you_."

When Kurt finally sank into him, it was slow – infinite care and more self-control than Blaine would ever expect from a first-timer – and being quiet was no longer an option. Blaine's body was shocked by the feeling of being filled so perfectly after such a long time, nerves firing impulses so bright and electric he could feel it in his fingertips, his _scalp_. Everything was _more_ – more real, more intense – Kurt over him with his eyes wild and his mouth sweetly open in pleasure, his own frantic heart, the fragments of thoughts rattling in his head. It was more, and too much, and entirely not enough after all those years, not yet, _no–_

But no amount of twisting his hands in the sheets or biting his knuckles or desperate holding back to feel like this just a little longer could help when Kurt leaned close over him, pressing him into the bed with perfect friction between their bellies and a hard kiss. A snap of hips, a broken off cry, a sharp bite into Blaine's shoulder and Kurt was coming – beautiful, innocent, undone, and that was it, Blaine was gone.

* * *

The realization was slow and steady as a tide, coming silently over the hushed night hours until it filled him, so surely and completely there was no room for anything but acceptance. No doubt, no fear, no struggle. It was what it was and nothing could change it.

He liked Kurt.

Not in the "_I'm not sure it's love yet, but hey, I like you"_ way. Not as a crush or infatuation or anything like that. He simply and very inconveniently _liked_ the boy. Okay, man, but in his head Kurt was still very much a boy. And Blaine liked him, and admired him, and found him fucking adorable and sexy and smart and _holy fuck that was not a good thing_.

He never wanted to like Kurt. He didn't want to feel anything towards him, to be honest. It was supposed to be almost a business transaction, sex for sex, good time together and nothing more. He'd done that a hundred times before, and it worked. No feelings were necessary, no deeper involvement – and in Kurt's case, it would really be best if it stayed that way.

Not a chance now.

Of course, he should have known that even if they managed to push away their shared past, the months of getting together at every chance would bring them too close. If he was being honest, he must have known for some time, some deep and muted part of him. He wasn't an idiot, after all. But it took that night – a moment too intense to hold onto any of his walls and defenses and lies – for the knowledge to spill, crest in a wave and overflow him. It was no longer just sex. There were feelings at play here, too.

It didn't change much about their arrangement, though it probably should. It only caused the guilt lacing every cell in Blaine's body to flare and grow just a fraction more.

It had never been easy, the weight of conscience, the awareness of what he'd done to another human being, how utterly he must have hurt him. It had been killing him slowly, every single day. But at least when he hadn't known–

When he hadn't known the sound of Kurt's laugh and the melody of his voice as he sang in the shower. When he hadn't yet heard the longing in his voice as he spoke of his old dreams; hadn't seen the way light faded in his eyes, enthusiasm killed by reality. When he hadn't realized just how smart and witty Kurt was, how talented – how bright a soul Blaine had derailed and shot out of its course that night five years ago... it had been easier then.

That night changed them in small, subtle ways that neither of them ever verbalized, ways that came so smoothly that it was easy to block out most of them unless they wanted to see.

* * *

Their talk breaks had been getting longer lately, and not because of any problems with stamina. The conversations that had started as simple, superficial questions and answers months ago had somehow grown in depth and complexity. It didn't mean they were getting together to talk now – not at all, but there was enough of that between them that when Kurt, melancholy and sulky one morning, admitted that he missed his family, Blaine didn't distract him with a kiss or, better yet, a cock in his mouth. Instead, he settled comfortably against the pillows, pulled Kurt closer so his head rested on Blaine's shoulder and asked, simply, "Tell me about them."

Later, he wasn't sure if he was more surprised by his own reaction or the fact that Kurt _did_ – he talked for a long time, a monologue filled with longing and memories of smiles and tears and love so very clear that Blaine's heart ached with envy. He didn't really know that kind of familial love.

They didn't have moments like this one often, even after this first time, but the gate had been opened and it changed things, the knowledge that they _could_ talk, if they wanted. If they needed.

* * *

_Do you like blackbirds?_

The text came well after midnight, the first time Kurt texted him with anything other than a proposition to meet, and Blaine laughed, surprised, and shook his head, and answered.

_Why?_

_No reason._ Kurt wrote, and then fifteen minutes later, like an afterthought. _I'm drunk and listening to The Beatles._

_"You were only waiting for this moment to arrive..." _Blaine sang – and typed – on reflex. There was no response.

They didn't talk about it the next time they met, but a few nights later, during a coffee (and singing, to keep himself awake) break, Blaine picked up his phone on a whim and sent out a text.

_"Iiif you want my body aaand you think I'm sexy, come on sugar let me knooow"_

Kurt's response came a minute later.

_Really, Blaine? Really?_

Blaine huffed out a laugh. He could almost see Kurt's exasperated eye-roll.

And just like that, it was yet another of their _things_. They texted each other every now and then, always at night – song lyrics and quotes, and, sometimes, snippy little observations about something one of them saw or heard. Nothing important, just silly little things, and it didn't mean anything, it was just a bit of harmless fun that they never ever talked about.

* * *

"_Ow_. Give me a second, I need to move."

"What you need to do is get up from that couch and come blow me. I have to run at the break of dawn again, and I'd like to catch a few hours of sleep after my orgasms, thank you very much."

Kurt was leaning against the wall separating Blaine's living room and bedroom, a look of mock severity on his face, and Blaine rolled over and got up slowly, swallowing a hiss.

"Hey, what's wrong?" The faux frown was gone, substituted by concern as Kurt left his post and came over to look at him.

"No, it's nothing. Just my back, I wrote all night again and I guess it's time to get rid of this old piece of junk and buy something more comfortable." Blaine kicked his rickety desk chair as he passed it on his way to the bedroom. It creaked.

He only managed to get his t-shirt off before Kurt was there, making quick work of the rest of Blaine's clothes and then his own.

"Okay, do you have any lotion? Or baby oil?" Kurt asked matter-of-factly as he pushed Blaine down to sit on the bed.

"What? Kurt, we have lube, and neither lotion nor oil work with condoms anyway."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "For a _massage_, Blaine. I'm feeling generous and I have some basic training from one of my past jobs, and I'm just awesome like that. So, lotion? And lie down on your stomach."

Kurt's fingers were _magical_, his patience and skills a blessing, and somehow straddling Blaine's hips, even with both of them naked, didn't turn into grinding or teasing or anything this time, just a long, slow session of... okay, torture at first. But the relief as his muscles unknotted and relaxed was like a miracle, the deep pleasure of Kurt's ministrations making Blaine groan, and then hum and sigh happily as his eyes drooped closed. Afterwards, Kurt slipped off to lie down next to him without a word, covered them both with a comforter and just spooned Blaine to sleep.

When he woke up, loose and well-rested, Kurt was gone, off to an early morning job, without a single orgasm.

* * *

It was sweet and smooth and scary as hell, this inevitable slide towards each other. It felt good – too good, binding them with invisible ties that felt like caresses; it came on like a whisper, like seduction, muddling Blaine's brain and scattering his thoughts. There were dark clouds somewhere far away, on the horizon – he knew that, remembered that he should be careful for some reason – but here, now, everything was soft and warm, and there was no need to worry; no need at all.

* * *

_Next chapter: __Exclusive_


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10: Exclusive**

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Tasha's face was incredulous.

"Absolutely nothing, why?" Kurt frowned. He was just getting out of a club with a couple of girls from his work, a last hurrah before he moved on to his new job at a women's magazine next week. The night was warm and humid around them, the pleasant hum of a few drinks in Kurt's veins stirring arousal awake, and he wondered leisurely if it was too late to drop by Blaine's apartment for a surprise quickie.

"Um, Kurt? That guy was seriously cute." Jenna provided, her eyebrow arching.

"And really, _really _interested." Tasha again. Kurt just shrugged.

"And hello, are you blind or did you seriously miss that napkin with his number that he was trying to pass you as he said goodbye?" Jenna shook her head.

Kurt was a picture of wide-eyed surprise. "Was he? I didn't see it. What a pity."

Oh, of course he'd seen. And yes, the man was handsome, and seemed sweet, and was definitely flirting with him. Kurt danced with him twice, and exchanged a few sentences, a couple of laughs. The chemistry seemed to have been there, too.

A cute, nice guy that made him laugh – he should be all over that, at least as an opportunity to go out on a date, get to know him better. And yet, when it was time to go, Kurt acted all tipsy and tired and sleepy, pretending there was no folded pink napkin with bold black numbers in the guy's hand.

"God, you act as if you don't want a boyfriend at all!" Tasha exclaimed and bumped him on the shoulder with her small hard fist as they stood by the curb, trying to wave down a cab. "I swear, if you start whining about your pathetic single life again, I'm gonna kick your ass."

She would do it, too, he knew. But that wasn't what really drew his attention to what she said.

He put the girls into the first available cab – they both lived in exactly the opposite direction from him – and then set off towards home on foot. It wasn't that far, and he needed to think. A visit at Blaine's would be a bad idea, after all.

What Tasha said, on top of tonight's pick-up fail, had hit him with a sudden realization: he hadn't been looking for a boyfriend, had he? Despite complaining about being alone – because no one knew about Blaine – and speaking loud and often how he just wanted a man who would sweep him off his feet and love him forever, faults and all, he had never started searching or opened himself up to the possibility.

Quite the contrary – if Kurt was being honest, he could think of at least four separate occasions, apart from tonight, where different men flirted with him or expressed interest in asking him out, and he had either ignored or rejected them. And it wasn't even that he'd looked at those guys and consciously decided that he wouldn't date them. He'd just never even considered it, like he wasn't interested on default, like he didn't want to date or find a boyfriend. Like he wasn't single at all.

Tasha was right: what was wrong with him?

By the time he had made it home, showered and got to bed, Kurt had his answer. He'd probably had it before he even started walking, but getting himself to admit it required a little bit of time and that special kind of courage that came from recognizing and accepting where he stood and what he wanted. Nighttime walks through the city that he loved and had chosen as his, and never abandoned even when everything was crumbling around him, tended to do that for him – remind him that it was his life, his rights and his choices. So he let himself choose.

It had been almost six months since he and Blaine had started their little... arrangement, and it had only gotten better the longer it lasted. So much so, in fact, that at this point, Kurt felt absolutely no need to actually look for a boyfriend, as shocking as it was to him to discover.

He used to dream about romantic dates, words of love, thoughtful gestures; about everyday life together with someone, somewhere further down the line, with promises and a future. So it was a surprise to discover that all of his needs seemed to be perfectly satisfied with mind-blowing sex whenever he wanted it, the intimacy of waking up together once or twice a week and Blaine's company in whatever limited capacity he chose. It made Kurt wonder if he was settling for it, pushing away his needs, but he didn't think so. He simply enjoyed the freedom of his single life, now that his libido was no longer in the way. He liked this lack of stress about dates and feelings and getting to know each other. It made him feel independent, a strong single man who could take care of his needs and lead the life he chose to have. He was doing better than he had in years. So why fight it?

Blaine was single too, and as far as Kurt knew, in no hurry to change that. He didn't complain about what they had, hadn't since his initial doubts, and there was no indication that he was thinking of ending it any time soon. On the contrary – they seemed to be getting along even better lately. So why change a good thing? Why not just enjoy what they had, as long as it felt like enough? Surely the need to be with someone for real would come eventually, and then Kurt would go and open himself up to new connections and relationships. But until then, it was no use trying against his own desires, or lack of them.

It felt freeing to finally recognize and accept this, felt good to know where he stood. Sighing happily, Kurt curled up in bed, the way he always did when he slept alone, and closed his eyes.

* * *

"How many other men have you been with since we got together?" Kurt asked Blaine a few days later.

"We're not together." Blaine mumbled, not opening his eyes. "And are you trying to censor my sex life now? Non-exclusive, remember?"

It was probably supposed to sound sharper, but the post-coital state made it quite an impossible feat, and Blaine all sleepy and mellow like this only made Kurt smile.

"I'm just curious. Come on, indulge me."

Blaine sighed and turned to face Kurt. "Okay. Should I count from the day you forced me to meet you at the bar or later, once you made a habit out of getting into my pants?" Kurt swatted at his arm. Blaine stuck out his tongue at him and then frowned, thinking. "Hm. Can it be an approximation?"

Kurt's eyes widened. He expected–

Blaine chuckled and tapped his nose. "Zero, Kurt, don't make that face. I can barely keep up with you, where would I find the energy to hook up with anyone else?"

"Oh."

Kurt felt his cheeks warm up in an embarrassed blush. It was stupid, they _were_ non-exclusive after all, and really, what if Blaine had even half a dozen other lovers on the side? It wouldn't change anything; Kurt just wouldn't be able to ask his question then, but... No, okay, it would be hard. He really wanted to ask.

"So... in light of this fact. Would you consider... _um_. Notusingcondomsanymore?"

Blaine's eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry? I didn't catch that, Kurt."

He took a deep, bracing breath and asked, slower now. "Do you think we could stop using condoms?"

Blaine was looking at him as if Kurt had just told him he wanted to get pregnant. The silence was pressing, heavier with every passing second until Kurt's forced composure snapped, nervous babbling spilling out of his mouth.

"I mean, we're spending a fortune on condoms, Blaine. It's not like I make all that much, and I'm sure you have better use for your money too, and if you're not sleeping with anyone else, and neither am I, we could just... give them up. If you'd... if it's something you would consider. If you _do_ that."

It was hard to decipher the amalgam of emotion on Blaine's face before it closed off, his features becoming hard and distant the way they sometimes had at the beginning of their non-relationship. It was Agent Blaine all of a sudden, the face that Kurt had seen once in the FBI office, a formal picture stuck to a whiteboard – the face that he'd always seen in his nightmares. He inched away on instinct, almost falling off the bed with the comforter clutched tight under his chin, and Blaine's expression softened back in a blink.

"Kurt, what happened to your looking for a boyfriend?" Kurt shrugged and relaxed slightly. He was being silly; it was just Blaine.

"I don't feel like it right now. I like being single. And I thought maybe if we don't have other partners anyway, we could take advantage of that. I'd really love to blow you properly, you know."

He was aiming for lightening the mood, maybe making Blaine gasp a little. Instead, he got a long look, burning with intensity.

"Why would you trust me like this? I could easily go sleep around and you would never know."

Kurt held Blaine's eyes. "Because I don't believe you would."

"Sleep around? Oh, you better believe it, because I did."

"No. Endanger me knowingly. You're not that guy."

It was automatic. He hadn't even thought about it, but as soon as the words left his mouth, Kurt realized it was true. He might not know Blaine all that well but somehow he knew he could trust him with this.

He only saw a flicker of something in those amber eyes, and then Blaine rolled away from him and off the bed.

"I need to think about it."

* * *

The text came two nights later, just after three a.m. It was just one word.

_Okay._

Kurt opened his bleary eyes, read it, and fell back asleep grinning.

* * *

Kurt didn't get it – he _couldn't _get it, not when Blaine was his first and only lover; not when _bare _ meant nothing more to him than naked skin and getting to touch more, taste more. He had no idea what it meant to Blaine.

He didn't know that there had only been two people Blaine had been with this way before, for whom he'd bared himself so entirely.

His first boyfriend, back in high school. They'd never used protection for oral sex – being each other's firsts, they hadn't even thought about it – but other than that, going bare was more incidental than a conscious decision – those few times when there had been no condoms at hand as an opportunity arose, and they were young and horny and desperate, and the knowledge of the inevitable mess and embarrassed fumbling afterwards was not enough to stop them.

The second one, a few years later, was Ethan. And with him, it was all about choice. It was another step in their road of intimacy, another thing they grew towards, another layer to strip in order to get closer, the closest possible. The last layer. They'd discovered so many things together, likes and preferences and a few kinks, and it was all so, _so_ precious.

Until it was all cheapened by the hundreds of encounters that came next, dozens of men Blaine didn't care to remember, anonymous bodies that made him feel for a bit, that did things to him – things he had discovered with Ethan; things that weren't special or sacred anymore, afterwards.

Except this. Never this.

So Kurt's request, while reasonable and innocent in its intent, shook Blaine to the core. Long after Kurt went home that day, Blaine paced the apartment, unable to focus on anything, teetering on the verge of panic. Or tears.

Not because Kurt asked.

Because he was seriously considering it.

He was considering getting absolutely bare and completely vulnerable in front of the man he should build a fucking _fort_ of defenses against, instead.

No. He should be honest with himself, if no one else. That wasn't true.

He didn't _consider_ it. He was ready to say _yes_ the moment Kurt asked. He only took the few days trying to talk himself out of it. And he failed.

_That_ was the scariest part.

He knew how it affected him, how much more it meant to him than simply baring more skin – so much more than trust, even. This was the closest he'd let himself be with another person – the closest he _could _be, body and mind. Emotions. _Soul_. And he wanted this with Kurt.

What was _wrong_ with him?

_What _wasn't_ wrong with him_?

* * *

Kurt's lips wrapped around his dick with nothing in between was a shock, hot and eager, and so _wet_ – Blaine had forgotten the feeling, the slippery slide of tongue over bare skin. It made his eyes roll back in his head.

They hadn't even made it to the bedroom. Kurt was down on his knees as soon as the door closed, pulling at the waistband of Blaine's pants and moaning loudly with the first taste of skin where before there had always been latex. He sucked Blaine off with utter abandon, face flushed and hand working in his own pants, and the only thing that kept Blaine from coming embarrassingly fast was the small voice at the back of his head telling him that this was a mistake.

_No, it's a blowjob. It's only a blowjob, it doesn't mean anything, doesn't change a thing, _he told himself, and pushed the doubts away, deep into the dark corner of his mind where they belonged. They went easily, and he could focus on the perfect tight heat of Kurt's mouth and his wicked tongue exploring every millimeter of Blaine's bare cock.

* * *

It didn't work so easily half an hour later, after Kurt had gotten out of the shower all steam-pinked and fresh, a young Adonis with a sultry smile and a hard, gorgeous cock, only to spread out on Blaine's bed with a murmured "Fuck me now."

And Blaine couldn't say _no_, of course he couldn't, he'd never been able to refuse this beautiful boy anything, ever since he'd first seen him, collared and terrified on a brothel floor.

"Are you sure?" He asked instead. "It's going to be a mess."

"I'm sure. I _want_ it messy and real, I want to _feel_ _you_. Please?" Kurt smiled sweetly, a picture of innocence, spreading his legs wide, and Blaine groaned. Kurt's hole was already a glistening, wet pink, and he was sliding his own fingers inside, two at once, with such ease–

God, he'd been fingering himself in the shower, getting ready, like he couldn't wait. No, Blaine couldn't refuse him. Nor did he want to.

Sinking into Kurt, slow and endless, felt like a first time – except not like _their_ first time which Blaine was doing his very best not to remember. Kurt seemed tighter than ever, so hot around him now that there were no barriers between them, and his eyes were huge and shocked, high keening escaping his lips with every centimeter taken in. He didn't even wait to adjust, his hips rocking instantly, legs wrapping tighter around Blaine's waist.

"Oh, it's so different, so much _better_, I can feel you _everywhere, Blaine, god–_"

The flush high on Kurt's cheeks, his face awed, delighted, fingers digging into Blaine's skin, spurring him to go harder, faster, _here god yes don't stop_ – he was the very picture of eagerness. He knew exactly what he wanted, and Blaine was only happy to give it to him.

It was nothing like their first time. Not even one tiny bit.

So why did the memory haunt Blaine's thoughts even as he finally fell over the edge, Kurt desperately urging him to come first so that he could feel it?

* * *

"So how do you feel?"

They were taking a shower together, both too tired and too sticky-sweaty to wait, and Kurt seemed fascinated with the come drip-dripping slowly out of him and sliding down his milky-pale thigh.

"Strange." Kurt reached behind himself to dip his fingers into his still open, slick hole and moaned faintly. "Like... completely _taken_. In a good way," he added when Blaine's eyes widened in alarm.

They slept afterwards, sated and exhausted, and for the first time it was Blaine holding Kurt throughout the night, spooning behind him after Kurt requested it. His own sleep was restless though, his mind refusing to go quiet and peaceful, his dreams broken and unsettling.

* * *

He woke up from what felt like the first bit of restful sleep that night, feeling slightly chilled and vaguely turned on. It was still dark in the room, not even dawn, and he was lying on his stomach, with the covers kicked aside. He had just enough time to wonder sleepily where Kurt had gone before a hot, wet tongue tracing up the inside of his thigh to the crack of his ass made him arch into the touch like a cat in heat. Kurt had only done this to him once before, a shy, hesitant try, so now the tongue flicking over his hole, and the moan vibrating right through him were a surprise and a shock.

Languid, luxurious presses of the tongue followed by fingers that were stretching him so slowly it was almost a torture, and every sound, every sensation seemed multiplied in the early morning stillness. Every spark of pleasure felt stronger, spreading through Blaine's body until he was a trembling mess of sweat and want. His eyes still closed, mind slow and dazed, as if half-asleep, he couldn't see his lover, couldn't hear him now except for his harsh breathing, and it could be anyone, anywhere – if not for the feeling of safety, the instinctive, almost casual _trust_ that was never a part of Blaine's one-night encounters.

And if not for that _voice_ that came at last, high and breathless.

"God, _Blaine_, can I...? I want to fuck you, just like this, please–"

"_Yes._" He didn't hesitate, paid no attention to his throat tightening around the word. He just wanted. God, he_ wanted_.

The tears came the moment Kurt bottomed out. They were sudden and unexpected, and Blaine couldn't feel more vulnerable if he tried – up on his knees with his ass in the air and his face hidden in a pillow, the cock filling him up so real and hot and _bare_. And he couldn't stop the tears and couldn't stop the blinding pleasure ripping through him with every snap of Kurt's hips, and most of all, he couldn't stop to _feel_. The shocking, unwelcome honesty of too little sleep and too many stimuli, of being barely awake and already falling apart with pleasure, made him utterly incapable of holding onto any of his defenses.

He was naked and open, inside and out, and he could do _nothing_ about it.

So he moaned and he _felt_ and he cried, and he hid his face between his outstretched arms because it was too much – too much even for himself, let alone for anyone else to see, to know. Especially Kurt.

Never Kurt.

He came with a strangled cry of Kurt's name that got muffled and distorted by the pillow, and then he lay there, willing himself into composure, blinking his tears and his heart away from his eyes, wiping his secrets from his too-open face before he'd have to turn and face his lover. It was hard. He didn't even remember the last time he'd cried; the last time he'd felt so much.

Because that was it: he felt too much. He _cared _too much.

He'd done the only thing that could make his heart shatter even more than it already had, impossible as it seemed.

Touch by touch, word by word, moment by moment – he'd fallen in love.

* * *

Blaine barely stirred as Kurt cleaned him up, so gently, and pretended to be asleep when Kurt came back to bed and snuggled against him. He was still pretending a few hours later when Kurt kissed him goodbye and quietly let himself out of the apartment to go to work.

And then he got up, threw on the first pair of pants he found and went right to the liquor cabinet that he'd been seriously neglecting for months.

Who cared if it wasn't even eight. He had to silence the feelings, shut down his brain. There was a reason he'd numbed himself all those years.

Too many feelings can kill you. In a messy, ugly way.

He'd rather just drink himself unconscious.

* * *

_Next chapter: __Extended hands_


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **_I'm a bit swamped with work, so if I don't manage to update tomorrow, the next chapter will be up on Saturday. I love all of your comments, thank you so much! *hug*_

* * *

**CHAPTER 11: Extended hands**

Melanie descended on Blaine one day the way she always did: after months spent buried in work, she was suddenly there without a warning, bearing cake and wine, and filling his apartment with bright colors and loud laughter.

She had been his closest friend since freshman year of law school – and now, he could safely say she was the only one left. She'd been there for him all along, in the happy years of studying, love and fun, through the terrible months when everything was crumbling, and later, still there as years passed and Blaine stayed in the same crappy place while she moved up in the prosecutorial world. Always there if he needed her, unapologetically big and squishy, with her passions and appetite for life, and a personality that seemed to fill every room she entered. Blaine didn't know why she'd stuck by him, considering how dull a company he'd become, but he was infinitely grateful that she had. Her witty reality checks had saved the remnants of his sanity more than once.

She was also frighteningly perceptive. And that could be a problem.

She had barely entered the room and gathered Blaine in a tight hug before he saw her glancing around with a cocked eyebrow. She didn't say anything, not until they sat on the sofa together, coffee and strawberry cheesecake conveniently at hand. Only then did she smirk knowingly and nudge Blaine's side with an elbow.

"Okay, spill: what's with the sudden tidiness?"

Of course she would notice.

Blaine never much cared about the state of his apartment. A bit of a mess didn't bother him. Coffee cups clustered on a coffee table, dishes piled in the sink or a blanket bunched on the sofa – things like that had always been a normal occurrence here. Now, however, since this _thing_ between him and Kurt had been going on, and Kurt seemed to thrive on cleanliness and order, somehow Blaine started paying attention to those little details and tidied up as he went. After all, he could never be sure when Kurt would want to drop by, often with rather short notice.

Blaine shrugged, and reached for the cake. He knew Melanie much too well to try and wiggle out of answering, though.

"I... may be having guests sometimes, lately. Or, _a _guest. Nothing to get excited about but –"

Melanie flailed a little, letting out a sound that could only be qualified as a squeal. "How long? Is he hot? Will I like him? It's a _he_, right? _OhmygodBlaine_, why haven't you said anything?"

Blaine chuckled self-consciously. He had no intention of revealing anything more. Melanie knew all about Kurt – more than anyone else, in fact. If he told her who he'd been sleeping with, she'd have him committed. Not without a reason, he had to admit.

"Several months, very hot, I don't think you will and yes, it's a he. And before you get too excited, it's just sex, nothing more."

Melanie was already beaming though. "Yeah, yeah. Many a good relationship starts with just sex, take my word for it. And don't you worry about me liking him; I'm sure once I meet him –"

"You won't." Blaine cut in sharply. _Too_ sharply. If he had wanted to pull her attention from the topic, he just managed the opposite. He needed to fix the damage now, and fast. He cleared his throat. "You won't meet him because –"

"Because I won't like him?" She suggested smoothly. "Honey, you're going sort of steady with one guy for the first time since Ethan. That's enough for me to like anyone, even if he were, I don't know, your personal ghost from the past."

Blaine took a huge bite of his cake – and promptly choked.

"_Blaine_?" Melanie's voice was deadly serious now, almost scared. "I was joking, I swear, please tell me you're not sleeping with _him_."

"I –" Blaine put away the plate, then picked it up again, just to have something to fiddle with.

"Oh fuck me sideways. You _are_. _Are you out of your mind_?"

"Mel–"

"Of course you're out of your mind. No, fuck, please tell me it's your idea of a sick joke. Why would you – _How_ –"

Blaine dared to turn to her at last and the worry on her face made him squirm.

"No, hey, it's alright."

"_It's not alright, Blaine!_ It's crazy and unhealthy and... God, please just explain it to me."

Blaine sighed and tried his best to find logic where he knew there wasn't much.

"We met by chance, he contacted me afterwards. He asked me for a chance to... reclaim what he lost? Sort of?" God, it sounded so stupid, put like that. "So we spent one night together, and that was it, no contact, nothing. Months later, he turned up again, asking for... well, for sex. And I... I agreed. I know it sounds like a terrible idea, but I'm fine, I promise, Mel. It's okay."

"Why would you agree to something like that?" She looked like she was seriously questioning his sanity.

"He... I... he asked, he had a reason, a valid one." The details of Kurt's trouble with intimacy were not his to divulge, but he had to give her something. "I owed him. So I agreed."

"You didn't owe him anything, honey." Her voice was soft again. She sounded almost motherly.

"I did, though. I had taken his first time from him. It was only fair I let him regain it in some way, if he needed that from me."

"You know it doesn't work that way, don't you?"

"But it did! Mel, trust me, I saw it work. And... it's really okay. I thought I'd be falling apart, but I'm not. I'm just having sex with a hot, gorgeous man, that's it. We don't talk about the past; we barely talk at all. It's just sex."

Okay, that was not quite true – not anymore, at least. It was barely a week since his realization and already things were changing between them, in subtle ways Kurt probably didn't even notice.

It had been a week that hurt like none before since the beginning of their arrangement. But he wouldn't tell her that.

"Blaine–"

"No, I'm done talking about this," he said firmly. "I'm fine. We're both adults and this is what we decided to do. Thank you for your concern, but it's not up for discussion."

"I'm just worried about you, you know that."

"I know. How come you don't ask how he is taking it?"

"I'm sure he has plenty of people to worry about him. You only have me."

That was true, so he didn't answer.

They didn't talk about it anymore, but Blaine could feel her worried eyes on him whenever he turned away. He knew it wasn't the end.

* * *

The feelings, once released from their secret prison of total denial, never left. They were out there constantly, wreaking havoc, as if Blaine hadn't been doing a good enough job by himself.

Suddenly, every night with Kurt was a new kind of torture.

They were in bed together, sharing space and sweat and sleep, and yet it didn't mean anything at all, didn't lead anywhere. It was more depressing than anything, this realization, because Blaine's thoughts and the flutter in his chest didn't matter. That feeling that Kurt was a perfect representation of everything Blaine used to look for in a man, sent here now to taunt him – it didn't matter. Every startled moment of wonder, every reverent touch when Kurt was asleep by his side, every text message that felt like their minds met in a precise spot without an appointment – all of it didn't matter. It _couldn't_ matter. Kurt was not his to love. There was no future for them, nothing Blaine could offer him beyond what they had. Nothing worth having.

Blaine's falling was his secret little thing, meaningless and pointless and forbidden, never to be revealed or reciprocated. Never a happy thing. It was just another part of his penance, the next ring of hell, worse than ever because it was so perfectly intersected with sweetness and light, woven together into an inseparable knot.

So on some nights he just lay there, long after Kurt was asleep, balancing on the edge between... not happiness exactly, but the closest approximation of it he'd had in years – and hell. It took so little to tip him over. He kept falling to the wrong side.

And it hurt more every time.

* * *

Kurt walked out of his new boss's office on weak knees, his head spinning.

It had been just a silly argument, a stupid dare from his annoyed coworker when Kurt wouldn't stop criticizing the clothes they'd been working with, bored half to death with the safe, repetitive feel of their photo arrangements after barely two months of work.

And then – because he was _not_ all talk, how dare she? – there'd been a weekend spent with his long-forgotten sketchbook and a pencil that only felt strange and foreign in his hand for the first hour, and with his head suddenly full of ideas. He'd brought the best sketches to work on Monday. By noon, he'd gotten what he wanted – an apology from the girl, along with the admission that he _did_ know what he was talking about. By the end of the workday the copies of his drawings had circulated the office and everyone seemed to look at him differently.

It was unnerving. He'd been a nobody before, just a newbie from the fashion department.

And today he'd been summoned to his boss's office where her friend, the head of a small but up-and-coming fashion house, had offered him an internship with the promise of a job in a few months if he proved to be "as talented as his designs suggested."

He hadn't been called talented in his field – hadn't even designed anything, really – for almost six years.

No, it wasn't entirely true – he'd come up with things as he stumbled through the rest of his college years, he had to if he wanted to graduate. But it held no spark, no inspiration like it had always had before, and the attention of his teachers, the label of the most promising student in his year, eventually faded and passed onto others.

And for years, Kurt hadn't really cared at all. He'd wanted to be a designer once, but it was gone now, the dream taken from him with so many other things. How could he design anything? Since his kidnapping, he hadn't been able to focus properly at all, let alone get to that space in his head where everything else disappeared and there was only him and his ideas, and the whisper of graphite on the paper as he filled page after page with sketches without a conscious thought.

Damn, he hadn't been able to even sit still for any reasonable amount of time.

But lately he seemed to be getting better – so much better, in fact, that the magazine job which he'd applied for in a flash of boldness proved to be no problem for him at all. He sat at his desk for hours every day, worked with people, focused on his tasks and... frankly, he was getting bored. Years of easy, menial jobs and now suddenly he was back to his old capabilities, and craving more, eager for a challenge.

And now the designing. He felt like a huge part of himself was suddenly back, one that he'd thought he had lost forever.

He'd said _yes_, of course. He was starting the internship on Monday.

Packing his things for the day – he'd still come back here three days a week, for now at least – Kurt hummed happily under his breath. It was time to celebrate. He'd buy a bottle of good wine on his way home, and a pint of his favorite ice-cream, maybe he'd even swing by that fancy Thai place for take-out. He shouldn't, not when he had to tighten his belt now that he was going to have fewer hours at the magazine, but today at least he wouldn't worry about that. Today was for celebration.

Okay, so sitting at home alone, maybe talking with his dad on Skype, wasn't much of a celebration, that was true. But the girls from his catering job had less and less time for him lately, and he hadn't really gotten close to anyone at the magazine, and the only person he would actually _want_ to take out for a celebratory dinner was... Blaine. Which, obviously, was out of the question. They never met outside of Blaine's apartment. Theirs was not _that_ kind of relationship.

Though... it had been evolving lately.

For the last two months, ever since they'd agreed on being exclusive with each other, things had been slowly changing. Kurt wasn't sure how much of it had been due to that conversation, and how much resulted from their new schedule of sorts.

Their respective work obligations kept them unable to meet more than twice a week most of the time. Kurt had regular office hours now, obviously, and worked every day, not just whenever an event was scheduled. But he was not the only one. Blaine might be a freelancer with flexible hours, but he was working on something big lately, something that filled his days and stole his sleep, as his haggard, exhausted appearance showed more than once. He didn't want to say what kept him so busy, but gone were the days when Kurt dropped by every other day and Blaine always found time for him. They didn't have as many chances to be together.

But when they did, their time was filled with more than just sex.

They'd been talking more, and not just to kill time before round two (or three, or, on several memorable occasions, four). No, it was genuine talking, the kind that friends do when they're still getting to know each other – sharing thoughts and preferences and memories (though never _those_ memories), exchanging work stories (Blaine only talked about his current job though, never about the FBI) and family stories, revealing more and more of themselves with every meeting. And Kurt had to admit that the more he was getting to know Blaine, the more fascinated he was.

The guy whose picture was emerging from those conversations and hours spent together was amazing: smart and passionate, with vast knowledge about so many things that Kurt's head spun a little. He was humble and funny, caring and sweet, and he only looked more gorgeous with his golden eyes alight and a flush of excitement on his cheeks when he talked about something he felt strongly about. And, of course, he was a sex god.

If they'd met under any other circumstances, Kurt would have probably fallen madly in love with him in a heartbeat. As it was, there were still moments when he had to forcibly remind himself that despite all of his endearing qualities, Blaine was the darkest shadow from his past, just to keep his feelings in check. So far, it had worked. But it was getting harder because Blaine was slowly becoming omnipresent in Kurt's life.

He'd introduced Kurt to some excellent books, and now Kurt could hardly look at his bookshelf or read anything without wanting to share and discuss his thoughts with Blaine. Same with music – they'd discovered that they shared quite a lot of favorites. They had even watched a few movies together recently. Sort of... cuddling on the couch, which was new and felt surprisingly perfect. And if Kurt found himself holding Blaine's hand halfway through _Moulin Rouge_... well, Blaine didn't seem to mind. Just like Kurt didn't mind Blaine absentmindedly playing with his hair the next time. It got him completely distracted with the sweet, sensual pleasure of the caress, so much so that he barely remembered the rest of the movie, but no, he didn't mind at all.

And... it wasn't what fuck buddies did, was it? He'd been avoiding this thought, but maybe it was time to face it: they were clearly more than that now. Lovers, yes, but also friends. Boyfriends? No, but–

Why not? Maybe? Would he mind? Would Blaine?

Kurt played with the thought as he made his way home, completely forgetting about the food he was going to get. He couldn't speak for Blaine, but his own reaction when he gently explored the possibility was surprisingly unsurprised. Which... actually made sense.

He wasn't naive enough not to realize how much of his progress and well-being in the past year was linked to Blaine. Kurt owed him more than a fantastic sex life. Somehow, in the year since their accidental meeting, Blaine helped him feel safe again, confident and comfortable in his skin, and ready to actually _live_. He had no more nightmares, no trouble with personal boundaries, and now even his dreams were alive again. It was more than Kurt had ever hoped for.

And he could lie to himself all he wanted, but the fact that he'd stopped looking for a boyfriend because he had Blaine in his life was pretty telling too. Because... Blaine was a pretty awesome boyfriend. Yes, they both told themselves – and each other – that they were only fooling around, but really? Going out on an actual date was the only thing keeping them away from... well, dating.

So why not just go there?

Kurt remembered his reasons, the anger that had still burned bright even just months ago whenever he'd thought of _that night_. He was still convinced there had to be something twisted and sick in a man who'd agreed to go undercover to fuck a sex slave, no matter how noble the excuse. But... it was six years ago. People change.

In all those months he'd been getting to know – really know – Blaine, not once had he seen the agent, the man who didn't care what he'd had to do as long as it got the job done. And Kurt's anger simply wasn't there anymore. He would never forget that night, but he thought he was ready to forgive.

His feet made the decision before his brain did, and before he knew it, he was back on the subway, on his way to Blaine's apartment.

* * *

The closer he was, the better the whole idea seemed and by the time he was nearing Blaine's station, Kurt was bouncy and excited. He would just surprise Blaine and–

Oh. Right, but Blaine didn't like surprises. He'd said so himself a couple of weeks ago – for whatever reason, Blaine _hated_ not knowing what was coming. Okay then, that wasn't nearly as much fun, but Kurt could respect his feelings on the matter.

_You need a break from all that work, hon. Get dressed, I'm taking you out to dinner. I'll be there in five. xoxo - K._

Okay, so maybe it sounded a little _too_ much like boyfriend territory, Kurt decided once he'd sent the text, but then he shrugged. Whatever, Blaine wouldn't mind. Kurt couldn't have been the only one fooling himself, they were both clearly straining towards _more _and holding themselves back. It was time to stop fighting it. They needed to talk, but first, they would celebrate Kurt's internship. Nothing like a good dinner to set the mood for talking about the future of a relationship.

Humming, he skipped up the stairs to Blaine's apartment.

* * *

"So." Kurt started as soon as the door opened. "I hope you like Thai because I'm in the mood for Thai tonight and there's this place not far from here that–"

"Kurt, stop." Blaine's voice sounded off, rough and strained somehow, and it was only then that Kurt actually _looked_ at him.

He looked _awful_. Or at least as awful as such an attractive guy could look, and Kurt didn't understand. They'd seen each other two days ago, he'd spent the night and Blaine had been flawless as always, smiling and sexy, and so _tender_ when he'd kissed Kurt goodbye.

Now he stood in the doorway in black sweatpants and a ratty white t-shirt, a coffee cup steaming in his hand, and he looked like death warmed over. His eyes were dull and hooded, his usually shiny curls matted, even his skin had an unhealthy, grayish tinge. He smelled like coffee and too much cologne.

"Whoa. You really do work too much."

"I'm not in the mood for sex tonight." Blaine said, his jaw working as he ground his teeth, and Kurt frowned. "Which I'd have told you if you called instead of just coming over unannounced."

"But–" Kurt stammered. "I'm not... I just wanted to ask you out, to–"

Something flashed over Blaine's face, lightning-quick.

"Kurt, which part of _just sex_ don't you understand? Stop romanticizing this, we're not _dating_, we're not _going out_ anywhere. I'm not your boyfriend. I will never _be_ your boyfriend." Blaine looked angry now, his face hard, almost cruel. "Either you can accept this for what it is or we should end it."

Kurt took a sharp breath through his clenched throat, face burning with humiliation. He straightened up in a well-practiced pose of calm and control, even as anger started to burn through him.

"Fine. I'll call you when I need a fuck."

* * *

When Kurt's retreating steps were no longer audible behind the closed door, Blaine put his untouched coffee away with a shaky hand, slid down to the floor and hid his face on his bent knees.

* * *

_Next chapter: __An intervention_


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 12: An intervention**

For the next few days, once he actually sobered – for real, this time – and recovered from a nasty hangover, Blaine wondered if Kurt would ever come back. He'd been in bad shape when Kurt had turned up, bad enough to let his bitterness and the latent resentment of their situation spill over, but he hadn't been so gone that he wouldn't remember their conversation. Oh no, he remembered it all too well, along with every little detail of Kurt's shocked, hurt expression.

It would almost be a relief if he didn't come back, part of Blaine's mind admitted. The other part – the weak, pathetic part – just whimpered at the thought of not seeing Kurt again.

But Kurt did come back. Made sure to call beforehand, too. He acted carefully and barely spoke, leaving after midnight instead of staying the night, but the sex was still hot as ever, and Kurt's skin, the line of his throat with his head thrown back, his hips rocking so perfectly right as he rode Blaine into the mattress made any lingering thoughts about ending their arrangement irrelevant.

Things were weird for a couple of weeks after that, a cool, almost formal air between them that felt completely forced. They were very proper towards each other – as proper as people can be while having regular sex, even with no strings attached – but little by little, the ice began to melt and a month after the blow-up they were back to talking and sleepovers, and even those little displays of affection that came so naturally (and were nothing to worry about. Really.)

And Blaine was back to paying for every meeting in self-hatred and/or drinking until he was numb because when Kurt was so close, it was hard not to _feel_. And he couldn't stand feeling so much.

But he could deal with it.

They never spoke about going out again, but when Kurt finally shared the news of his internship, Blaine felt so bad for ruining that night for him that he made dinner the next time Kurt was supposed to come over. He even lit candles. It felt like a date.

He didn't sober up for three days after that.

* * *

Mel noticed things.

She was bound to notice sooner or later, of course, now that she made it her mission to keep an eye on Blaine on a more regular basis again and called or dropped by at least once a week. So far he'd been lucky and she hadn't seen him at his worst, but he knew she recognized the signs. She'd seen them too many times before.

But she didn't say a word about it, respectful of Blaine's request to let it be, for over three months since she first learned about Kurt. She kept giving him worried looks, asking how he was, inquiring about his writing and his sleep and his eating habits (though not the drinking ones), but never once did she say Kurt's name. Which, given how protective she was, should have been a warning by itself. But Blaine was just happy that she didn't give him hell about it.

She pounced when things between him and Kurt were finally okay again, once the world had returned to its twisted, but predictable order.

* * *

"It's funny how the roles are reversed, don't you think?" Mel said casually one day, stirring her coffee with a wry smile. "How _you_ are the sex slave now."

Blaine snorted over the platter of cake he was cutting, but her face remained serious. He stared at her. "You're kidding."

"I'm not. Look at it. You're at his beck and call, granting him sexual favors, and you're not even paid."

Blaine frowned and put away the knife to look at her properly. "You can't be seriously comparing Kurt's situation back then to mine now."

She shook her head. "Actually, I think that yours is worse, in a way. Kurt only had that one night with you, several days in captivity. You've been trapped in this for months."

Blaine spluttered, indignant. "This is ridiculous. I'm not _trapped_, I can end it anytime I want to. Have you considered that maybe I just _don't_ want to?"

"Yes, because you are your own captor here. You just keep punishing yourself, don't you?" Mel said lightly, and something twisted in Blaine's chest, _too close_. She pressed on, every bit the unrelenting prosecutor she was. "When will you decide it's enough? When you have nothing left to sacrifice? When he _forgives you_, B?"

Blaine shuddered and closed his eyes, fighting for composure.

He'd given up on that hope a long time ago, didn't even think about it anymore, but the word brought back a flash of the raw need. He felt a warm hand on his forearm and let Mel pull him close. It was so easy to fall into her embrace, allow himself to be held, her body a soft, jasmine-scented blanket of safety around him. The tears were too close again and he squeezed his eyes tight, Melanie's voice gentle in his ear.

"It's not his forgiveness you need, cupcake. It's yours. This is not a fairytale. He won't magically erase years of misery with a kiss, or lift a curse, waking you up to a new happy life. You can only do that yourself. This game you two play, it's just making it harder for you, B. And you don't have much left to lose."

The tears won at last, seeping swiftly into the shoulder of her hot pink jacket, and Blaine's bitter laugh sounded more like a sob.

"I know, Mel. But I can't push him away."

* * *

Kurt's phone buzzed with an incoming text just as he'd finished gathering his things to go home after a particularly productive day at work. Yes, w_ork_ – because he'd just been promoted to junior designer a week ago, a regular position with a decent salary and a world of possibilities for his future. He still couldn't believe that this was his life.

He looked at his phone in the elevator and a grin spread over his face.

_**Blaine: **__Come over after work?_

Kurt considered his options. He hadn't expected the invitation – he'd been at Blaine's barely two days ago, and usually it was him initiating their meetings anyway – so he had no spare clothes with him. He could either go right away and return home after they were done (an unwelcome option; he really loved the _falling asleep together _part of their meetings), or go home first to grab a change of clothes (which made little sense, considering his apartment was further away from his new workplace than Blaine's was, and in a completely different direction). Or–

_Fuck it_. It was Friday. He would survive going home in the morning in today's clothes; he could even go commando if needed. He tapped out a quick response (_I'll be there in a half hour)_ and walked to the subway, humming happily.

* * *

Kurt had just rounded a corner into Blaine's street when he heard his name being called. Startled, he turned towards the unfamiliar voice and sure enough, there was a rather large, colorfully-dressed woman of about thirty waving to him from a table outside a cafe. Kurt's well-earned distrust towards strangers flared up immediately, but there were plenty of people around, so he cautiously walked over.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He was sure he didn't, actually. She was a memorable one, that was certain. Up close, he could see that her clothes were not only flattering and well-chosen for her body type, but also designer label. Her hair fell in dark brown waves onto her shoulders, held back with an olive green head scarf, and she had one of those expressive faces that are hard to forget. Right now, the expression on it wasn't particularly friendly, though, as she looked him up and down appraisingly.

"No, but I know you. Well, _of_ you." She offered her hand, surprisingly strong when Kurt took it. "Melanie Olson, I'm Blaine's friend. And just so we're clear, I don't like you."

Kurt withdrew his hand, bristling already. "Oh. Good to know. Well, Melanie, it was nice to meet you, but I have a meeting, so–"

"No, you don't. Blaine didn't text you – I did." She shrugged and reached for her coffee, leaving him staring.

"What? Why– How–"

"I borrowed his phone. We need to talk, and I had a feeling you wouldn't take it well if a stranger invited you for coffee and a chat. Considering your past and all."

The casual remark made Kurt's heart jump up in his throat. He didn't advertise his past; not many people knew of it. Then again, if she was Blaine's friend–

_If_ she was Blaine's friend. He had no way of knowing, really. She could be anyone, and as little sense as it made at this point, Kurt had always feared that the demons from his past might come back to haunt him – there were helpers, accomplices who'd never been revealed, still running free somewhere. Even the guy who had "recruited" him – Kurt had been looking out for him throughout the trial, and he'd never surfaced. If the kidnappers wanted to reach their former "employees", eliminate the witnesses for some reason–

Melanie must have noticed the rapid change in his breathing, his hands clenched tight on the back of a chair, because her face softened.

"I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me. Let me clarify: I know of you and your past because I've been Blaine's friend for over ten years now. And you have no reason to be afraid of me, though I understand the reaction. I'm an Assistant DA, I can show you my credentials if you want, but I'm just here for Blaine." She reached into her spacious bag and pulled out a wallet, from which she produced a small picture. "Here, see for yourself."

It was a cut-out from a larger photograph, slightly crinkled and worn out around the edges, and the faces of the two people laughing over a shared microphone were much younger and perfectly carefree, but it was definitely her and Blaine.

"Freshman year, karaoke night. We started talking, then we sang together. It was love at first note." She rolled her eyes when Kurt's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Not _that_ kind of love, he's gay as the Easter bunny in case you haven't noticed, and not my type. I like them big and blond, Viking-style. But he's my best friend, Kurt, and that means I get to be a bitch to anyone who's hurting him."

Kurt startled out of his momentary freeze. "You think I'm hurting him?"

"I know you are. That's why I'm here. I want you to leave him alone."

"Excuse me?" God, that was some utter nonsense. "I have no idea where you get your info, but maybe you should talk to Blaine instead of assuming. Try after one of our... dates. I'm sure he'll tell you just how _unhappy_ I make him."

He felt confident now, almost cocky. This was some stupid misunderstanding, an overprotective mother hen with a hero complex, trying to save Blaine from... what? A relationship she considered wrong for some reason? Was she one of those who didn't believe in sex outside a steady relationship? Or was she simply jealous? How much had Blaine told her, anyway?

Deep down, discomfort stirred, a reminder why their rel- _um_, _arrangement_ was kind of a complete secret, why Kurt had never even told his father. He pushed it away, his gaze never wavering.

But she didn't flinch either.

"Mhm. Tell me, Kurt. When did you last see him?"

He smirked. "Yesterday morning. And I assure you I left him safe and sound, and very... satisfied."

If he wanted to shock her – okay, maybe he did, a little – it didn't work. She swallowed the rest of her coffee in one impressive gulp and stood up, shouldering her bag.

"Fine. Come on, let's go visit him, check his _satisfaction_ levels." She arched her eyebrow when Kurt hesitated. "What? Are you afraid there might be something to my crazy assumptions, after all?"

"Of course not." Kurt huffed and followed her, his head held high. "I just don't want to make Blaine uncomfortable when he has to tell his alleged best friend to mind her own business."

She grinned at him. "Don't worry. I promise to be properly contrite if he does. But it's not going to happen."

She sounded too certain, and the uneasy feeling fluttered in Kurt's chest again.

"Yeah, we'll see."

They walked the short distance to Blaine's building in silence, and Kurt's hand slid into the side pocket of his bag on instinct – just another thing learned from his own mistakes. He was about to go into a poorly-lit entrance hall with a stranger. He would _not_ do that unarmed.

"Feel free to take it out." Melanie was looking at him, completely calm. Kurt felt his cheeks heat up.

"What do you–"

"The pepper spray or taser or whatever you carry. You can take it out if it makes you feel safer, I don't mind. Just maybe wait until we're out of the crowd?"

Indeed, there were quite a lot of people around them on the sidewalk, the afternoon rush hour in full bloom. Kurt hesitated when they reached the door which Melanie opened with a code, but then he shrugged and took the device out. Better safe than sorry.

"You know tasers are illegal for civilian use in New York, don't you?" She sounded amused, and Kurt cursed inwardly. _Shit_, he'd forgotten who she was. Or claimed to be.

"I–"

She didn't give him time to panic, looking over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs in front of him. Her smile looked genuine for the first time since he met her. "It's okay. I may not like you, but it doesn't mean I don't understand why you feel the need to carry something more effective than spray."

Kurt let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yeah. I'm not taking any chances." _This time_ hung unspoken in the air. (Back then, the only weapon Kurt had had were his keys. It had only gotten him a punch to the face when he scratched his kidnapper's cheek open.)

Melanie nodded and continued up the stairs. When she reached Blaine's door, she simply took out a set of keys and opened it. Kurt stared at her.

"Wait. I thought Blaine was supposed to be home."

She shrugged. Her smile was gone now. "He is. He gave me spare keys years ago."

Kurt didn't move, his hand tight and sweaty on the taser. Melanie sighed. "Come in. I _swear_ I haven't murdered B for bait to get you here alone. Do you want to call someone and tell them where you are? Or you can call the police and make them check my credentials."

Maybe he should. Or, better yet, leave right now, trusting his instincts.

Instead, he took the final two steps up and stopped beside the open door. It was quiet inside, not even the sound of typing coming from Blaine's apartment. Yes, something was definitely wrong.

Melanie was waiting patiently.

"Why are we really here?" Kurt asked eventually.

"Because I want to show you something." She looked very calm, and very determined.

"Does Blaine know?"

"He won't mind."

This was possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done, going against every rational thought in his head – but somehow, he had to do this. Maybe he'd pay for it. But something was very wrong and there was no way he would walk away without checking to see if Blaine was alright.

Taser still at the ready, he followed Melanie into the apartment.

* * *

_Next chapter: __Out in the open_


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **_Three chapters left! I will be posting them daily, finishing on Wednesday. There may be a little bonus content on Thursday or Friday, too, I think :)_

* * *

**CHAPTER 13: Out in the open**

The apartment felt... different. At first Kurt thought it was because Blaine was nowhere to be seen or heard – the place seemed empty, dormant. But then, after Melanie dropped her bag on the nearest chair and paid him no attention whatsoever, disappearing behind the wall separating the bedroom and bathroom from the rest of the apartment, Kurt looked around once again, calm enough now to notice the differences.

It wasn't that there was a mess. The living area looked just like he'd left it yesterday – with the addition of a few small details.

The blinds were down and the windows closed, making the room too hot and stuffy, smelling faintly of sweat and alcohol, and cheese. There was a pizza box on the kitchen bar, still mostly full, and an empty Scotch bottle beside it. On the coffee table in the living room a half-full tumbler of amber liquid stood among a mess of yellow lined paper covered tightly with uneven scrawl. Feeling like a creeper, Kurt stepped closer to glance at the notes, and nearly tripped over another bottle lying open on the floor. There was still some whiskey inside, and just a small wet spot on the carpet.

He picked up the bottle and took it to the kitchen. It looked like Blaine had plenty to drink today, and it was barely six. Then again, he remembered the number of drinks Blaine had that first night at the bar, when they'd discussed the possibility of sleeping together just once, and how unaffected he'd been by the alcohol. Maybe this was his normal writing routine; Kurt wouldn't know. At least it explained why Melanie had just let them in.

Right, Melanie. He could hear her voice now, just barely, speaking softly to someone – Blaine, of course, who else – in the other room, and Kurt was moving before he consciously decided to.

They weren't in the bedroom like he expected. Instead, the bathroom door was wide open and Melanie was crouching in the doorway. She turned when she heard Kurt's footsteps, giving him a view inside.

A view at Blaine, who was kneeling on the floor with his head resting on his arms folded over the toilet seat.

He was barefoot, wearing just his boxer-briefs – the same soft grey pair he'd pulled on yesterday, on his way to the kitchen to make coffee before Kurt left – and a faded purple t-shirt with a NYU emblem. His eyes were closed, his hair a tangled mess, and if Kurt thought he'd seen the worst of Blaine that night when he'd come over with his silly dating ideas... well, he'd been wrong.

Melanie went back to trying to rouse Blaine enough to get him to bed, and this was Kurt's cue to leave – he didn't want Blaine to open his eyes and see him there. He returned to the living room and sat on the couch, grinding his teeth.

Blaine probably wouldn't even remember if he saw him, but what if he did? How would he feel? He clearly didn't want Kurt to see him like this – there was a reason he never got drunk when they were together. And everyone had a right to get completely wasted every now and then, without witnesses if they chose so, or with as few as they wanted. It was completely unacceptable, bringing Kurt here, making some kind of show of it. He was in half a mind to leave entirely, but he couldn't, not without a few choice words to Melanie. God, the nerve of her!

He could hear commotion from the bathroom, Blaine's voice mumbling something weakly, and Kurt's eyes stung unexpectedly. Melanie's plan was probably to scare him away, or gross him out maybe, anything to get him to break up with Blaine for whatever stupid reason she believed valid, but he wasn't grossed out, disgusted or anything of the kind. He wasn't sure what it was that he felt, but Blaine seemed so vulnerable all of a sudden, so... helpless, even. Maybe it was just a projection, a mirage caused by how his supposed friend manipulated the situation, but for a moment, Kurt lingered on how Blaine should have someone to really care about him, someone he could trust to be so defenseless with. He shouldn't be alone.

Then again, what did Kurt know about his life? It wasn't like he actually _knew_ Blaine. They weren't close, not really. Not in any way other than physical. Blaine made sure he remembered that.

Melanie got out of the bedroom to grab a bottle of water and some pills from a kitchen cabinet, then disappeared again for a minute or two. When she returned, she set out to make coffee, ignoring Kurt's wordless glare.

"He'll be dead to the world for hours. We can talk in here."

Kurt's barely contained anger spilled at last.

"I don't see what there is to talk about, unless you mean you creepily luring me in here just to show me that Blaine gets drunk sometimes. Well here's newsflash for you: everyone does, and that's no reason to–"

"How often?" She cut in, not even looking at him over the coffee can.

"What?"

"How often does everyone get completely wasted like this? Three days a week? Four? Because that's what he's been doing for the last few months, Kurt."

This gave him a pause, but only for a moment. "And what if he does? He's an adult, it's his life and his choices. And that's bullshit anyway, I would have noticed, I've been here–"

"Twice a week? More or less?" She supplied with a knowing smile, and Kurt stared at her. "No, he didn't show me a schedule or anything. But I'm observant enough."

"You're a stalker, you mean." Kurt corrected dryly. "You call yourself Blaine's best friend, but so far all I've seen you do was invade his privacy and try to censor his sex life. So what if he wants my dick but nothing else? So what if he wants to drink himself unconscious, even every other day if he so chooses? Guess what, it's a free country, and what he does with his body is none of my business. Or yours."

She froze with the coffee pot in her hand, then put it away slowly, her voice incredulous now.

"Fuck, I thought you just didn't know. But you don't even _care_, do you?"

"Why should I care?"

Oh, he cared alright – he cared more than he should, more than Blaine wanted him to. But he wasn't going to discuss his feelings with _her_.

"Because you're the reason he's a wreck!" She yelled, then ground her teeth and took a steadying breath before finishing quieter. "You were the reason six years ago–"

Kurt felt his blood boil with fury. "Oh, I'm so sorry I had been kidnapped, forced into sex work and had to be rescued by big brave FBI agents–"

"Shut up, I'm not saying it was your _fault_ back then. But now it is. That case destroyed him, and now you're killing him, Kurt. Every time you two meet, it kills him a little more, and I won't let you do this to him anymore."

Kurt's next scathing remark died on his lips. He shook his head, confused.

"I don't understand."

Melanie leaned over the breakfast bar, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Of course you don't understand, you self-centered little brat! Have you even _tried_ to consider his side in all this? Do you honestly think you were the only one affected by that night? Well think again." She paused and glared at him, as if waiting for him to argue, but then she shook her head and continued a bit calmer. "Blaine went into that house a whole, sane man. A happy man, enthusiastic about his job, eager to help people, with plans and dreams and his whole life in front of him. And he came out of there a wreck, a shadow of himself. He's never gotten over it, and I'm not sure he ever will. All I know is he'll never have a chance if you keep doing what you're doing."

Something was building in Kurt's mind, something too big and too scary to think about, but the fine trembling growing steadily in his hands and spreading all over his body wasn't just because of his own memories of that night – not this time. There was more, more than he'd even allowed himself to consider, and he was afraid to ask, to even think about it – but he wasn't a kid anymore, and covering his ears and singing loudly to block out what he didn't want to hear was not an option.

"But that was his job, right? He was on the sex squad. It was just another case, another operation–"

She rolled her eyes. "But it _wasn't_. Kurt, he was twenty-five, same as you are now, if I'm not mistaken. He was a fucking kid, barely a few months on the job, and that was his first big case. He should have never gone in. He was a rookie, naive and wide-eyed, not even trained yet for undercover work. But they were pressed for time and he was their best option, so the squad leader decided to bend the rules, anything just to close the case. They never even told him – they knew how the brothel worked, knew what the job might entail and they didn't fucking _tell him!_" Melanie's voice broke at the end.

"What?" Kurt couldn't feel his lips. The hoarse whisper slipped out of his mouth on too short a breath. He didn't want to know.

He _had to _know.

"They didn't tell him that it wasn't like acting, Kurt. That he wouldn't just be playing pretend. That it shouldn't be like that but sometimes, undercover, things happen, sometimes you have to do things to be in character – bad things, things you would never do otherwise. _He didn't know_."

The world stopped, foundations of the past shifting, memories flooding in, the smallest details he'd always ignored.

The uncertainty, piquing into anxiety for a moment, before Matt – Blaine – took control. The gentleness. The apologies.

Melanie was still speaking, bitterness heavy in her voice.

"If I had known he'd gotten that assignment... I could have at least told him, let him make an informed decision. I raised all hell afterwards, of course. Half of the Bureau heard of the case, his team leader was forced into early retirement – and thank god, the guy was completely desensitized, a callous prick. The bosses weren't happy with him for losing an excellent agent, but the damage was done. Blaine resigned and there was no way to change his mind. And he'd been fantastic, Kurt. Such a good, sympathetic, selfless man. So much potential, they said – not for the undercover work, perhaps, but otherwise he was perfect for the sex squad. He could get everyone to talk – kids, rape victims, witnesses, even the most scared working girls, he just gave off this vibe of safety, calmed them down instantly. You have no idea how rare that is."

No, he had no idea. But he had experienced it.

How could he have been so wrong all this time?

"Tell me everything."

He needed to know – he couldn't even process it all yet, his mind a whirlwind of emotions, but he needed all the facts. Melanie nodded earnestly and poured them coffee – then, with another look at him, left the cups on the counter and brought glasses and the rest of Scotch to the couch instead. Kurt sipped at the amber liquid, the burn as it slid down his throat strangely grounding. Melanie drank hers in one swallow and put the glass away.

"B broke down after that night. Completely. He wouldn't leave the apartment, wouldn't eat, couldn't sleep. He wouldn't even let Ethan in. His boyfriend." She answered Kurt's questioning look, and his heart clenched even tighter, a little hard ball of hurt. "They'd been a couple for over two years, had been planning to move in together. The most ridiculously adorable lovebirds I'd known. And Blaine couldn't even talk to him afterwards. He couldn't look him in the eye, let alone touch him, _not after what I've done_ he told me. " She shook her head, sadness etched into her face.

"I finally forced him to let me in and basically camped here for the first month. I was afraid he'd hurt himself and he refused to talk to anyone else. I can't tell you how many times I woke him up from screaming nightmares, how many times I held him sobbing, heard him call himself names. He was a rapist in his own eyes and nothing could change that, no arguments or the extenuating circumstances. Not the way he saw it. He kept worrying about you, blaming himself, obsessively trying to find a way he could have avoided hurting you. He quit the FBI. Got in trouble with his father about it, too – all the bullshit about how he was too soft, quitting over something like that, because of course someone at the Bureau had told asshat Daddy even though they had no right. Eventually he lost Ethan, too – there was only so long the boy was willing to wait, pushed away completely as he was, and there was no end in sight. It was the final blow, though B kept saying he didn't deserve Ethan, didn't deserve anyone to love him, not when he was a monster."

"He wasn't." Kurt whispered, and Melanie's face was softer now, sorrowful, her words slow and tender.

"No, he wasn't. He was a good man with a gentle heart, a dreamer, not hardened enough for that kind of job. He'd always been an artist, deep down, and a helper – he should have gone into music like he wanted to. He would have done great as a teacher, too, or a psychologist maybe, a social worker. But his father pushed him into law school and then the FBI, and Blaine went, eager to help people, save them – he built the whole vision of his life around that. That night showed him things about himself that he didn't know, things that terrified him – what he was capable of when circumstances were dire enough. And they _were_ dire, Kurt, I don't know if you realize how much. You would have both died if he had blown his cover. Those guys would have killed you without a blink, and all the other kids there, too, if they had to disappear real quick – we know they did it before, at the beginning of their operation. And the fact that Blaine was capable of doing what he did might have been the difference between life and death, but it didn't stop him from hating himself for it."

Kurt's face was wet with tears. His glass was empty and he desperately needed something to anchor him, so he tipped it towards Melanie who poured him the rest of the whiskey from the bottle before picking up her story.

"After Ethan broke up with him, B went into self-destruction mode. Lot's of meaningless sex, with countless guys, as if doing it with enough consenting partners would make him forget about that one night. Booze, non-stop. I'll be forever grateful that he's always been too smart to try drugs, or he'd have been dead by now. It went on like that for months. And then, at some point, it got slightly better. He'd never stopped being miserable or blaming himself, but he learned to live day to day somehow." She paused and looked at Kurt, her eyes harder again. "And then you appeared, and the cycle began again. He doesn't sober up for days after you two meet, Kurt. I haven't seen him this bad in years."

"I–" He didn't even know what to say – he hadn't realized, how could he? But was it enough of an excuse? Had he ever even _tried_ to see Blaine's side? She cut in, not giving him a chance to speak.

"Why are you doing this? Why him? You could have found anyone for this kind of arrangement. You're a hot cookie, I'm sure you have plenty of interested guys around. So why Blaine? Because it's convenient? You're slowly killing a man – a _good_ man – because you need a fuck toy and you know he won't say no? That's cold, Kurt. Or are you trying to punish him?"

"No! I– I just–" _Didn't think? Didn't care? _Melanie wasn't waiting for his answer.

"He can't forgive himself, even all these years later. And he doesn't believe _you _could ever forgive him because in his eyes, he's forever the rapist, the man who robbed you of your innocence. And I understand if you can't, sometimes it's impossible to forgive, and while I think he was a fucking hero, I understand that it may be different for you. But for god's sake, Kurt, stop shoving it right into his face. You're making it infinitely worse. Before you came, he was miserable, but not suicidal at least. Now it feels like it's only a matter of time until he takes one drink too many, or steps in front of a car on his way to get more booze."

Kurt drew a shaky breath that sounded more like a sob. "He never told me, not a word, I had no idea... Why did he even agree?"

"Because he thinks he owes you, and he would give you everything you ask for because that guilt can never be erased. And of course he didn't tell you, it could make you feel bad if he did. Well, I don't have such reservations."

"I–" He felt funny, his breathing weird, and there was too little air in the room. He had to move, get out of there, into the cold air outside before he suffocated. A smile was fixed on his face like a shield, his usual reaction to shock, protecting him from the world seeing him vulnerable – but his voice gave him away. "I have to – go, I have to _go_, I just... don't tell him I was here, please."

She didn't try to stop him, just handed him the bag he'd almost forgotten in his panicked hurry to leave. "Of course I won't. It's between you two. But... don't hurt him anymore, Kurt. He doesn't deserve that. And I don't want to have to hunt you down and kick your ass."

* * *

_Next chapter: __Confessions_


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:**_ #1: Guys, I'm really open to discussing my thoughts and headcanons, but that's kind of impossible when you post your critique anonymously._

_#2: Please do not assume I "am" one of my characters. Do you really think I spend all that time creating the plot and showing every possible angle and POV, only to crawl into one of the character's head to preach? They are people. They have opinions and agendas and beliefs. It's kind of part of the plot, you know._

_/end rant_

* * *

**CHAPTER 14: Confessions**

Kurt didn't remember much of his way back home. He knew he ran out into the street, knew he had taken the subway, but it was all a blur. Now he was home, alone in his tiny apartment, and it was Friday evening. The weekend stretched before him, all the time he needed to think about... well, everything.

He didn't want to think though, not yet. He was too raw from the last few hours, reeling from the pain that wasn't even his, yet he could feel it through every fiber of his body. He needed some time, a buffer to numb him, even just a little, before he could really let himself think about Blaine and that night, those years, the last months. But there was no escaping Melanie's words nor the images they'd evoked, nowhere to hide from his brain and the emotions that were just waiting to tear him apart as soon as he let the shaky remnants of his defenses down.

So he did something he hadn't done in years. He dug in his bathroom cabinet for the old prescription bottle, back from the time when actually sleeping through the night was a challenge. A few pills still rattled at the bottom and normally, Kurt might have questioned taking six-years-old medication, but tonight, he just shrugged and swallowed one dry. In the worst case, it wouldn't work.

But it did work, thankfully, and a night of deep sleep with no dreams was exactly the relief he needed.

What he'd forgotten, though, was how the pills made him feel when he woke up – woozy and still half-lost in sleep, so open to every thought, every tiny shift in the air. Now he remembered why he hated them. Being hit over the head with the reality he was trying to escape from, first thing in the morning, when he was at his most vulnerable, was not what he'd been looking for – not back then, and definitely not now.

And he was glad it was the weekend, after all, because he wouldn't be able to get himself together enough to go to work, not when it was impossible to get out of bed, curled around the pain deep in his chest that he knew rationally wasn't there, but still hurt like a bitch.

* * *

By Sunday night he was all cried out, heavy with remorse and self-condemnation.

True, the night that had started it all – the one that had ruined Blaine's life and his – wasn't Kurt's fault (though deep down, an unreasonable little voice reminded him with uncomfortable precision just how he'd pleaded with Blaine – Matt – to do whatever it took to keep him safe from John's wrath). He couldn't _imagine_ doing what Blaine had to do, forcing himself into acting so much against his own nature, ruining everything he had, to save someone else. It hurt to even think of what Blaine must have gone through, back in that house, and later. But Kurt wasn't the one to blame here, just like Blaine wasn't the one to blame for Kurt's trauma, after all.

What Kurt knew he _was_ guilty of was what came later, this last year and their arrangement – _relationship_ – that he'd so carelessly directed. He flinched every time he thought of everything he'd been doing, saying, even thinking since meeting Blaine last February; every time Blaine had said _no _only to give up under Kurt's arguments or pleading.

_He would give you everything you ask for_, Melanie said.

And he had. Step by step, from one night to more to exclusivity to basically being a boyfriend substitute, Blaine had given him everything Kurt had wanted, and more. From his new perspective, Kurt couldn't fathom how much it must have cost him. And yet, Blaine had never shown it was hard for him. Not when Kurt had been there, at least.

_Because he thinks he owes you_.

God, he'd been such an ungrateful little shit, hadn't he? Blaine didn't owe him anything, he never had. It was Kurt who had a debt the size of Texas; his life, literally and figuratively.

None of the realizations were easy, none of the thoughts painless. The worst thing was that Kurt had no idea what to with all of it. The sex had to stop, obviously, but what could he even say to Blaine? How to stand before him and confess what he'd been thinking, how he'd seen him all that time? How to apologize when no words would ever be enough?

He wanted to go home, to Lima, to sit down with his dad and tell him everything. But he couldn't, he'd just been home for Christmas, and the new job meant no chance for time off, and how could he discuss it anyway, with his dad of all people? He couldn't, not in any amount of detail, not when so much of it revolved around sex. They would both die of embarrassment.

But he had no one else to talk about it, either – no one who knew. So in the end, he did call his dad – revealing just a little bit, just the core of what was clawing at him, his voice small and shaky.

"I messed up, dad. I've been stupid and I hurt someone and I don't know what to do."

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a question, tight and careful.

"Kurt, do you mean like... an accident? Or–"

The breath escaped him in a stunned burst. "What? No, just... someone did something for me and I didn't really understand how huge it was, and I've treated him _terribly_, dad, I just. I don't know what to do."

His dad hummed, the sound so earnest and so familiar. "You do the only thing you _can_ do. You apologize and you fix it as best you can."

"It's not that easy." Kurt sighed, and he could almost see his dad nodding, his face serious.

"It never is."

* * *

When Monday came, Kurt was all too ready to get out of his apartment and away from his thoughts. Work turned out to be an escape he needed, a blessed relief. He was surprised how easy it was to switch his emotions off when he designed, the way it used to be years ago. For a few hours there was only him and his sketches, his ideas, the fabric samples to choose from. He needed that – more of that.

During his lunch hour he sent a text to Blaine, a little lie about being crazy busy all week and having no time to meet until the next weekend at least. Blaine sent back a smile and a lighthearted comment about him being the big busy designer now, and Kurt had to escape to the bathroom because his eyes stung again – because this felt so normal, so easy, when he knew now that it couldn't be. Nothing about them was easy.

He lost himself in work that week, every day filled to the brim until there was no time for even a moment of thinking about his screwed up private life. But when the moment to go home inevitably came, it was all back, heavier every night. Or so it seemed.

He couldn't escape forever. It wasn't the right thing to do – the responsible, adult thing. And it was time to be responsible at last.

On Friday, Kurt was still nowhere near ready for the conversation that had to come. But more time wouldn't help. Nothing would. So he just texted and set the time, and then he went.

* * *

Blaine was smiling when he let him in, looking effortlessly gorgeous and so normal, nothing troubled about him. It was such a contrast to the last time Kurt had seen him, such a reminder of how much Blaine had been hiding, and for how long, that it brought tears to Kurt's eyes again, sudden and unwelcome. He swallowed through his tightened throat until it loosened, wiping his cheeks quickly. Not quickly enough.

Blaine frowned, his hand coming up to Kurt's face.

"Hey, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

There was no use waiting, or pretending. The time for honesty had come. Kurt sniffed delicately.

"I met your friend last Friday." Blaine's eyebrows rose incredulously, and Kurt added. "Melanie."

"Oh god." Blaine's face lost all color. "What did she tell you?"

Kurt kept his eyes, his voice breaking. "Everything. She... she brought me here. And she told me everything."

Blaine turned without a word and walked away from him on unsteady legs to drop to the couch, face hidden in his hands. He didn't speak for a long while – no denying, no questions – and Kurt stood there paralyzed, wondering what to do, how to react.

Finally, he went with his heart.

Blaine didn't flinch or push him away when Kurt sat next to him, but when he looked up again, all the masks were gone. For the first time, Blaine really looked like a man who had lost everything.

"I should have told you myself. It was easier not to but... I bet Mel was more dramatic than strictly necessary, wasn't she?"

Kurt shrugged. "She got me to listen. _Really_ listen, when I didn't want to hear what she was saying at first. She's... very protective of you."

"She is. I'm sorry if she upset you."

Kurt braced himself for what he had to do.

"No, I needed to hear it. Because... Blaine, I messed up." The confession was like acid in Kurt's throat, but he breathed through it, determined to get it all out in the open. "I'm sorry. I thought... bad things. I had never really considered your side of the story until Melanie told me, I just assumed and I... I blamed you, okay? I thought you wanted it, that assignment, that you took it because... because you didn't mind doing it and that you didn't care and so you wouldn't care _now_, either, and–"

"Kurt, oh my god, never, I would _never _have taken it if I'd known, how can you even _think_ that!" Blaine looked at him shocked, betrayed, and Kurt wound his arms around his own suddenly aching stomach.

"I know, I know now. And I'm so sorry, you have no idea, for everything I've ever said and done that hurt you, I wish I could take it all back, fix it – can I fix it somehow? Even just a little?" He looked up then, hopeful, and Blaine's eyes were wet.

"You are fixing it." He croaked after a few shuddery breaths, and pulled Kurt into a hug.

They were silent for a while, just breathing together until Blaine's frantic heartbeat slowed down to a steady rhythm and he pulled away.

"I can't believe you thought I _wanted_ to do that to you – to _anyone_. God, Kurt, I was–" Blaine broke off and shook his head.

"Tell me."

"I was _terrified_. Not going in, that was easy, just... when I realized there was no other way. But you were so brave, and I knew I had to be brave too, my _job_ was being brave. I just... I didn't expect I'd need _that_ kindof bravery."

Kurt shook his head. "I wasn't brave. I was so scared I thought I'd pass out. But then you were there, and you were so different from what I was told to expect, so... human, so careful with me, and that helped so much, Blaine. It was a nightmare, my whole time there, but... you made me feel safe. In the middle of all that, and I didn't know who you were, and yet... I felt safe, for a little bit. That was the best thing you could have given me, except freedom. And then you went and gave me that, too."

"Kurt–" Blaine was crying openly now, and Kurt pulled him in and held him, and whispered in his ear.

"You did good. I'm so sorry I ever thought... You were wonderful, Blaine, and I didn't know what it was like for you or I'd have told you long ago. This whole thing messed me up, yes, but it wasn't _you_. It wasn't your fault, you did what you had to do, and I'm sorry I doubted your intentions. I'm sorry I never asked. But you were the hero in this, not the monster. You need to let it go, honey, you need to forgive yourself because you did nothing wrong."

"But you–"

"I have nothing to forgive, and everything to thank you for. Not just back then, but now, all this year. You just kept saving me, giving me my life back, bit by bit. I wouldn't be where I am now without you. You set me free in so many ways, and I will never be able to thank you enough. Now it's time for you to take your life back."

* * *

They sat in silence for a long time, holding each other, two survivors of an old cataclysm that had changed everything. Finally, when Blaine's shoulders were no longer shaking, Kurt stroked his back and whispered.

"I will be there for you if you want me to, but we should stop doing this. No more sex. It's time to figure things out, separately."

Blaine shuddered one last time and pulled away from his embrace, something sad and desperate in his face. "Yeah. Just... could you–"

"Anything."

"One last time. Can you give me that?"

Kurt didn't hesitate or question Blaine's reasons. He simply kissed him. "Yes."

* * *

All those times, Kurt realized, he'd been doing this for himself. No matter what they did, no matter how, he was thinking about himself first. Not that he didn't care about Blaine's pleasure, but in his head, it was every man for himself, each of them gaining something.

But now, this was all about Blaine. Blaine who led him to the bed for the last time, who stripped simply and easily, and then lay down and waited for Kurt to join him. And Kurt spent longer than he ever had just kissing him, touching and holding and rocking together, not to get off but because it was so close, so intimate. And when Blaine spread for him, open and vulnerable and wanting, he didn't think of himself at all, for once. He couldn't care less about his own arousal. It was all Blaine, under his tongue, around his fingers, accepting him so perfectly.

And Blaine... Kurt had never seen him so unguarded, letting go so completely. He was just taking tonight, nothing else, open to whatever Kurt would give him – and Kurt wanted to give him so much. He could give him everything and it would never be enough, but he would at least try.

Blaine's face, so open and soft, his eyes focused on Kurt, his voice breaking over Kurt's name that he'd never heard him utter in those most helpless moments – he'd never forget that.

* * *

Blaine fell asleep in his arms afterwards and Kurt held him until he stirred an hour later, awakened by a chirp of his phone. The warm weight shifted in Kurt's embrace, pressing close for the last time, and then Blaine pulled away and sat up.

They parted with a soft kiss and no words, and Kurt went out into the night, not looking back.

* * *

_Next chapter: __Epilogue_


	15. Epilogue

**A/N: **_Before you dive into the epilogue: I want to thank you for joining me on this rollercoaster ride, and for all the lovely, encouraging words you sent me. Sharing this story with you all has been a pleasure and a privilege. Thank you! *hug*_

_I will post one more thing tomorrow – some head-canon facts and little snippets – but the story ends with this epilogue. I'm not planning a sequel. The future is yours to imagine ;)_

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

After that last night with Kurt, Blaine woke up feeling empty. The tangle of emotions, the guilt and self-hatred that had choked him for so long was gone, exorcized by Kurt's words and the tenderness of his touch, and there was nothing to take its place. It ached, this empty space inside him, but mostly, he felt relief. It was like having a rotten tooth pulled out, one that had hurt for so long that you'd forgotten how it felt not to be in pain.

Blaine stayed in bed for a long time that morning, just floating – unfocused, disconnected thoughts and feelings coming and going, until he realized: for the first time in years, he felt free. He had nothing anchoring him where he was any longer. Nothing at all.

So he did something that had always been just an unrealistic dream. He put most of his possessions in storage, gave up his apartment, filled his car with the bare minimum he needed to live, and drove away. He could write anywhere, and he had nowhere to call home. Not anymore. Not for a long time, now that he thought of it.

He just kept going, without a plan or a goal, just wherever felt right at any given moment. Weeks turned into months, then a year, and there were so many places. There was no pattern to it, he just followed his whims, the call of his heart. And it seemed like his heart wanted peace, since no matter the state, he tended to gravitate towards nature – empty beaches and mountains and deserts, hiking areas and wood cabins and lake houses. In some places he stayed longer, but it was never more than a month before he felt the need to go again.

He kept mostly to himself, not looking for much human contact. He ate simply and didn't touch alcohol. He spent a lot of time outside – running, hiking, swimming. Physical effort felt good, cleansing. He wrote wherever he went. The old yellow folder with his original ideas and notes was growing thick.

He had no plan when he took off, no idea what he wanted, but somewhere along the road, the freedom, the silence and the nature became therapy. Somehow, even without trying, he found himself healing.

It took two months before he contacted Kurt. He'd left him a message before he went, a goodbye, honestly not sure if they'd ever meet again. Not sure about anything at all at that point. But now, sitting on an empty beach at night, with a gentle breeze and a whisper of waves, he didn't think. He just took out his phone that he hardly ever used anymore, and sent out a text.

_I miss you_.

This was only the first step in a journey of many. There were more texts flying between them, tentative at first, then more and more comfortable. Sometimes there were a dozen a day, other times silence for weeks. Sometimes he sent Kurt a picture of something that moved his heart; sometimes Kurt showed him what he was working on. They never sent pictures of themselves.

There were conversations, too. Every now and then, when Blaine missed talking or needed to feel anchored to his old life, he'd call. Always at night. They talked about anything, no pressure, no questions, just being there for each other for that bit of time. Kurt knew about Blaine's first hesitant dive into his own story. Blaine knew about Kurt's career and his dating adventures. He was the one Kurt told first when he found a boyfriend; and then the first to know when they split months later. He shook his head, amazed, when Kurt told him he'd gone drinking with Melanie.

They didn't talk much about their memories or feelings, about what had been between them. Didn't try to name things. But somehow, along the line, with words unspoken and texts unclear, they understood. Both of them. There were mutual feelings and there was acceptance, and it didn't mean anything, or change anything. It just was.

It doesn't always have to lead to anything, when you love somebody. Sometimes it's just there, like a smooth, sun-warmed rock in your pocket, steady and reassuring.

And then one day Blaine just knew.

It was time to go back. The healing was done. He was whole again, the long-shattered pieces inspected and rearranged into something new – some thrown away, some new ones added. There was nothing left to search for.

* * *

Blaine hadn't been here in over a year, and the last two weeks had been busier than he was used to nowadays. He'd bunked at Mel's for a few days until he'd found a new place to live, and now that the process of settling in was over and the most urgent job-related meetings taken care of, the rest of his life could begin.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at the phone in his hand.

His apartment still felt new and unfamiliar around him, the noise from the street outside too loud after the silence of his solitude, but it was home. Finally, his heart was where it wanted to be. Back in New York.

He read the text again, just for good measure.

_I'm back. Do you, by any chance, still want to ask me out?_

He took a deep breath and hit _Send_.

The answer came not a minute later.

_Thai tonight?_

THE END


	16. Optional bonus content

_These are just bits of my head-canon that didn't find their way into the story itself. Some of them address questions I was asked in the comments, some are completely random. One was prompted by a conversation with nachochang during the beta process._

* * *

#1:

Fun fact: Blaine did experiment with D/s dynamics a bit, with Ethan. Except... he was a sub, not a Dom.

* * *

#2:

Melanie did try to convince Blaine to go to therapy, or to AA meetings – multiple times over the years. She never pushed too hard, though. She knew that if she did, he'd probably just cut her out, like he had everyone else who tried to tell him how to deal with what he felt. She decided he was better off with a friend than without, since his stubborn refusal to get professional help didn't seem to waver anyway.

* * *

#3:

Kurt walking in on one of his drunken phases was Blaine's worst fear. At some point, he started scheduling their meetings so that he would always have enough time in between to sober up, if needed. That was his "big work project" that didn't let him meet Kurt more than twice a week – just an excuse for his "down times" that happened more and more often. So Kurt coming over with hardly any notice at all, that one night when he tried to ask Blaine out, caused immediate panic. Blaine barely managed to make himself look marginally presentable and less obviously drunk in time to open the door, but he was sure Kurt would see right through him anyway. Hence the snappy reaction – a panicked, impulsive attempt at distraction.

Of course, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold up the pretense forever – it was only a matter of time before the evidence of his binges would get harder to cover and his body would start betraying him. And that was a terrifying prospect, too, but still distant and abstract enough to put off thinking about it.

* * *

#4:

There were several books in Kurt's apartment, borrowed from Blaine merely a week before Melanie's revelation. Kurt couldn't touch them afterwards – they were a part of Blaine, of what they'd had together, and everything connected with Blaine was too raw and painful at this point. So he put the books away and forgot about them.

He found them again months later, well after they started speaking via text messages. He was ready to read them at last then, remembering their conversations with a fond smile. It was nice, like a piece of Blaine was there with him – especially when he found post-it notes tucked here and there with Blaine's comments or thoughts.

Then, one day, another note fell out from between the pages of one of the books he was reading. This one was different – just a torn-off piece of a lined yellow paper, folded in half. Blaine's handwriting on top was uncharacteristically shaky and uneven, the paper stained with old condensation rings from a whiskey tumbler. Kurt considered putting it away without reading, but it didn't look like anything private, and curiosity won.

On the top side, there were just familiar lyrics:

_Bring him peace  
Bring him joy  
He is young  
He is only a boy_

_You can take  
You can give  
Let him be  
Let him live_

_If I die  
Let me die  
Let him live_

Convinced that these were just some notes for one of Blaine's books, Kurt unfolded the paper. His eyes widened as he read.

_He's spring. In this endless frozen desert, he's spring like I never thought I'd see again._

_I thought I broke him. I __had to__ break him to save him, I had to, and I thought... I feared–_

_And yet, here he is, bold and vibrant and alive, so very alive, and stronger than I could ever be, so much more than I will ever become. Even when he struggles, even still bound by the past and weighted by this baggage, he's spring, ready to explode into full bloom of its stunning potential soon. Any day now._

_I can't touch these fresh green leaves, I won't allow myself for fear of freezing them to death. I broke him once already. But I can feel the sunshine on my face, and the warm wind. I can see the clear sky in his eyes. He's spring, and I love him._

_I love him._

Kurt sank into the armchair, hand covering his mouth and his eyes suddenly wet.

He didn't ask Blaine about the note. Instead, he folded it carefully and hid it in his own journal.

* * *

#5:

They didn't have sex on the first date. Or on the second, or third. It would be too easy, to just fall into the old, familiar rhythm. And that wasn't what they wanted, even with the chemistry still sizzling between them. That could wait. Instead, they talked for hours. They went to the movies, ate out, saw a Broadway show or two. They just spent time together.

And even after everything they'd done with each other, sexually, the first time Blaine took Kurt's hand, as they were walking to the subway after dinner one night, it felt like the closest they'd ever been.


End file.
